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WIISTIR,N.Y.  14510 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/iCIViH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Inatltuta  for  Historical  IMicroraproductiona  /  Inttltut  Canadian  da  microraproductiont  historiquas 


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Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notos  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  Ie  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  ia  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

\ 


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THE  HUDSON  LIBRARY. 

Published  bi-monthly.    Entered  as  lecond-claas  matter.    i6°,  papsr, 
SO  cents.     Pubtlihed  also  in  cloth, 

I.  Love  and  Shawl-straps.    By  Annbttb  I^ucillb  Noblb. 

».  Miss  Hurd :  An  Enigma.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

3.  How  Thankful  Was  Bewitched.    By  Jab.  K.  Hosmbr. 

(.  A  Woman  of  Impulse.    ByJUBTiN  Hdntlev  McCartht, 

5.  The  Countess  Bettina.    By  Clinton  Ross. 

6.  Her  Majesty.    By  Blizabbtr  K.  Tompkins. 

7.  Qod  Forsaken.    By  Frederic  Breton. 

8.  An  Island  Princess.    By  Theodore  Gift. 

9.  Elizabeth's  Pretenders.    By  Hamilton  AIdA. 

10.  At  Tuzter'a.    By  G.  B.  BmiGiN. 

11.  Cherryfleld  Hall.    By  F.  H.  BALPoim. 

la.  The  Crime  of  the  Century.    By  R.  OttolbnodIi 
■3.  The  Things  that  Matter.    By  Francis  Gribbi.b. 
14.  The  Heart  of  Lite.    By  W.  H.  Mallock. 
iS>  The  Broken  Ring.    By  Elizabeth  K.  Tompkins. 

16.  The  Strange  Schemes  of  Randolph  Mason.    By  Mblvillb  D.  Post. 

17.  That  Affair  Next  Door.    By  Anna  Katharine  Grbbm. 

18.  In  the  Crucible.    By  Grace  Denio  Litchfield. 

19.  Eyes  Like  the  Sea.    By  Mattrus  J6kai. 
30.  An  Uncrowned  King.    By  S.  C.  Grier. 

ai.  The  Professor's  Dilemma.    By  A.  t,.  Noblb. 

aa.  The  Ways  of  Life.    By  Mrs.  Olipbant. 

aa.  The  Man  of  the  Family.    By  Christian  Rbid. 

34.  Margot.    By  Sidney  Pickering. 

35.  The  Fall  of  the  Sparrow.    By  M.  C.  Balfour. 

36.  Elementary  Jane.    By  Richard  Pryce. 

37.  The  Man  of  Last  Resort.    By  Melville  D.  Post. 
JB.  Stephen  Whapshare.    By  F.mma  Brooke. 

39.  Lost  Man's  Lane.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

30.  Wheat  In  the  Ear.    By  Alien. 

31.  As  Having  Nothing.    By  Hester  Caldwell  Oaklbt. 
j».  The  Chase  of  an  Heiress.    By  Christian  Rbio. 

33.  Final  Proof.    By  Rodriques  Ottolenoui. 

34.  The  Wheel  of  Qod.    By  George  Egerton. 
33'  John  Marmaduke.    By  S.  H.  Church. 

36.  Hannah  Thurston.    By  Bayard  Taylok. 

37.  Yale  Yarns.    By  J.  S.  Wood. 

38.  The  Untold  Half.    By  Alien. 

39.  Rosalba.    By  Olive  P.  Raynbr. 

40.  Or.  Berkeley's  Discovery.    By  R.  Slbb  and  C.  A.  Pratt. 


I 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  Nbw  York  and  London. 


tter.    i6°,  papsr, 


I 


^OBLB. 

Green. 

lER. 
AB.THT, 


IBLVILLB  D.  F06r. 
IBM. 


t^OSALBA 


LBT. 


?RATT. 

D  London. 


\ 


\ 


f ITYm   IVIES! 


y 


ROSALBA 


THE  STORY  OF  HER  DEVELOPMENT 


BY 


OLIVE  PRATT  RAYNhR 


u 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEWlYORK  AND  L'ONDON 
Ube  imicftecbochec  pceea 

1899 


V 


ix^ 


>v 


644(i5 


Copyright,  i8(m 

BY 

G  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


SECOND  COPY, 


ttbc  KnickcrbocHft  9rc«f ,  «<w  Dock 


yA:^ 


v^ 


<0 
'V 


CONTENTS 


CMAPTKH 

I.  Ok  Mektings. 
II.  After  the  Explosion    . 
JII.   I  Make  a  Discovery     . 
IV.  A  Revolting  Daughter 
V.  The  Wide  World  . 
VI.  The  Log  ok  a  Lanu  Cruisk 
VII.  I  Find  my  Vocation 
VIII.  I  Change  Masters 
IX.  Good  Society         .        . 
X.  A  New  Profession 

XI.  Vistas 

XII.  Signed,  Sealed,  and  Delivered 

XIII.  Clipping  my  Wings 

XIV.  An  Old  Acquaintance 
XV.  I  Take  to  Authorship 

XVI.  A  Slighted  Commandment  . 
XVII.  News  from  the  Monti  Berici 

iii 


PAOB 
I 

a 
39 

57 

74 
89 

106 

137 

138 
'S6 
168 

'83 
196 
210 
226 
241 
*5S 


s 


IV 


Contents 


CHAPTKH  tAOB 

XVIII.  An  UNRKHEARSEn  ErisoDK  .         .        .  363 

XIX.  "The  Lupari  " 37a 

XX.  The  Brink  of  the  Precipice    .        .  388 

XXI.  More  Thunderbolts.        .        .        .  304 

XXII.  At  Saint- An ur6         .        .        .        .318 

XXII I.  A  Revelation 33' 

XXIV.  A  Transkkrenc  K  ok  Feelino      .         .  343 
XXV.  I  Test  my  Market  Value         .         .  354 

XXVI.   I  Come  to  Anchor     .         .         .         .37' 
XXVII.  Ok  the  Nature  ok  an  Epilogue       .     389 


f 


J' 


f 


)GUE 


rAciB 
262 

272 
288 
304 
3'8 
33" 
34^ 
354 
37' 
389 


ROSALBA 


CHAPTER  I 


OF    MEETINGS 


I  SAW  him  first  on  the  Monti  Berici,  near 
Vicenza. 

"  By  him  you  would  say,  of  course,  the  man 
you  were  to  marry." 

Now,  you  dear,  sophisticated  English  reader, 
marriage-ridden  as  you  are,  with  your  crystal- 
lised and  stereotyped  Teutonic  ideas,  do  you 
indeed  imagine  I  would  thus  forestall  my  whole 
tale  at  the  outset  ?  If  you  do,  you  are  far 
from  the  Kingdom  of  the  South  ;  you  fail  to 
comprehend  the  Mediterranean  temperament. 

In  Italy  marriage  is  an  institution  ;  love  is  a 
romance.  We  do  not  say  him  of  the  man  our 
parents  design  us  to  marry. 


\ 


2  Rosalba 

These  words  alarm  you?  Then  read  no 
further.  I  write  for  those  who  can  gaze  with 
sympathy  on  the  warm  tempestuous  southern 
seas,  not  for  those  whose  hearts  are  ice-bound 
in  the  sluggish  straits  of  the  north.  Romance 
for  us  Italia.is  does  not  find  its  culmination  in 
what  your  English  lawyers  poetically  describe 
as  an  ante-nuptial  settlement. 

I  saw  him  first,  then,  I  repeat,  where  as- 
phodels bloom,  on  the  Monti  Berici,  near 
Vicenza. 

What  manner  of  mischievous  Italian  i,np  I 
must  have  been  at  that  time  I  can  scarce 
remember  ;  't  is  hard  to  think  oneself  back  iiito 
one's  own  dim  childhood.  But  he  has  told  me, 
and  I  believe  him.  About  ten  years  old ; 
dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  with  deep  brown  tints 
like  one  of  Giorgione's  peasants  ;  a  wild  little 
wayward  creature  ;  lithe  figure,  face  full  of  re- 
serve and  questioning  wistfulness ;  dressed  in 
a  somewhat  exaggerated  Italian  costume,  and 
chattering  volubly  in  the  liquid  dialect  of  the 
Venetian  mainland.  ''But  with  a  twinkle— 
such  a  twinkle  ! "  he  says  ;  and  you  may  no 
doubt  accept  his  evidence.  I  was  pert,  I  feel 
sure,  and  a  complete  stranger  to  reverence. 
To  this  day,   indeed,  I    am  accused  of  flip- 


V 


len  read  no 
n  gaze  with 
Dus  southern 
ire  ice-bound 
1.  Romance 
ilmination  in 
ally  describe 

It,  where  as- 
Berici,    near 

Italian  i.np  I 
[  can  scarce 
self  back  iiito 
?  has  told  me, 
\   years   old  ; 

brown  tints 
;  a  wild  little 
ace  full  of  re- 
s ;  dressed  in 
costume,  and 
lialect  of  the 

a  twinkle — 

you  may  no 

as  pert,  I  feel 

to  reverence. 

;used  of  flip- 


Of  Meetings  3 

pancy  by  the  elephantine,  stolid-eyed  British 
matron. 

We  were  people  of  some  importance  in  our 
day,  we  Lupari— on  the  Monti  Berici.     (Pro- 
nounce our  name  to  rhyme  with  soupery  and 
coopery,  if  you  please,    not  with  starry  and 
chikari.)     In  the  first  place,  we  were  landed 
proprietors.     Not  perhaps  in  the  same  sense 
as  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  or  the  Princes  of 
Recoaro  are  landed  proprietors  ;  for  my  father's 
holding,   I   am   credibly  informed,  though   it 
seemed  to  us  a  perfect  principality,  amounted 
to  no  more  than  some  three  and  a  half  acres. 
But    a  landowner  is  a  landowner,   no  matter 
how  little  land  he  may  own ;  nay,  the  smaller 
his  property,  the  greater  the  sense  of  dignity  it 
confers.     My  father  was  a  man  who  had  a  high 
idea  of  himself  and  his  possessions.     He  re- 
spected the  Lupari.     Christian  name  Antonio 
—which  as  good  as  showed  he  was  an  eldest 
son  :   for  we  lived  near  enough  to  Padua  to 
look  upon  St.  Antony  as  the  chiefest  of  saints ; 
so  the  first  boy  begotten  in  each  family  for 
miles  around  was  always  christened  Antonio — 
except  of  course  in  the  case  of  freemasons  and 
freethinkers,  who  named  their  first-born  Giu- 
seppe, after  "  the  glorious  Garibaldi,"  or  else 

( 


Rosalba 


Vittorio  Emanuele,  after  the  Liberator  King. 
'T  was  the  sign  of  a  good  CathoUc  to  make 
your  eldest  an  Antonio.  That  last  applies  to 
these  latter  days  alone,  I  need  hardly  say  ;  for 
when  my  father  was  christened  we  still  groaned 
in  Venetia  under  Austrian  despotism;  and, 
being  all  good  Catholics,  everybody  then  was 
alike  an  Antonio. 

The  Monti  Berici  rise  abruptly  from  the 
boundless  plain  like  rocky  islands  from  the 
sea.  They  rise  close  above  Vicenza ;  so  close 
that  from  their  steep  flanks — vine-trellised, 
cypress-fringed — you  look  right  down  into  the 
grey  streets  of  the  city,  with  all  its  stately, 
cro  '  d  palaces.  The  principal  hill  of  the 
grov  .  '  call  by  way  of  distinction  the  Monte 
Beri  ,  on  :3  bald  summit  stands,  smoulder- 
ing white  in  the  Italian  sun,  the  great  church 
of  the  Madonna,  where  we  chudren  went  to 
hear  mass  every  Sunday  morning.  No  church 
in  the  world  was  so  "grand,"  we  knew,  as  the 
Madonna  del  Monte.  It  had  such  a  vast 
dome  that  when  you  threw  back  your  head 
and  gazed  up  into  it  you  seemed  to  see  the 
heavens  opened.  An  arcaded  path  leads  zig- 
zag from  the  town  to  the  portico  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, that  pilgrims  as  they  mount  may  be 


•ator  King. 
ic  to  make 
t  applies  to 
ly  say ;  for 
;ill  groaned 
tism ;  and, 
y  then  was 

^  from  the 
3  from  the 
a ;  so  close 
ne-trellised, 
wn  into  the 
its  stately, 
hill  of  the 
I  the  Monte 
5,  smoulder- 
reat  church 
en  went  to 
No  church 
new,  as  the 
uch  a  vast 
your  head 
to  see  the 
h  leads  zig- 
of  the  sanc- 
int  may  be 


Of  Meetings  5 

sheltered  from  the  heat  of  the  day  in  summer. 
Our  house  and  vineyard  stood  quite  close  to 
these  arcades,  and  we  children  used  to  play 
there  on  the  dusty  open  space  beside  the 
crucifix,  which  is  known  as  Al  Cristo. 

Mariana  and  I  were  playing  there  on  the 
morning  when  I  first  saw  him. 

It  was  early  spring.  Snatches  of  perfume 
reached  us.  The  bare  branches  of  the  vines, 
trained  in  long  loops  from  tree  to  tree,  after 
hanging  through  the  winter  like  rusty  brown 
ropes,  were  just  transmuting  themselves  into 
living  festoons  of  wan  green  foliage.  Dainty 
pink  tendrils  with  purple  tips  were  beginning 
to  put  forth  their  twining  fingers,  and  to  feel 
about  on  every  side  for  some  support  to  clutch 
at.  The  big  wistaria  on  our  cottage  wall  had 
tumbled  in  wild  cataracts  of  lilac  bloom.  Our 
neighbours'  laburnums  were  hanging  out  their 
pendulous  swaying  clusters.  Pyramids  of  white 
blossom  transformed  the  horse-chestnuts  into 
huge  candelabra.  It  was  the  southern  May— 
that  golden  month  whose  echo  your  northern 
poets  have  borrowed  from  our  own,  but  whose 
soft  sweet  air  you  can  never  have  felt  till  you 
feel  it  in  Italy. 

Mariana  and  I  were  engaged  on  a  little  dif- 


6  Rosalba 

ference  of  private  judgment  under  the  arcade 
by  the  crucifix.  Mariana  wanted  to  play  at 
the  fight  with  the  Austrians,  while  I  wanted  to 
play  at  burying  the  patriots  after  the  battle. 
My  patch  of  black  cloth  made  such  a  lovely 
catafalque !  We  had  grown  hot  with  discuss- 
ing this  moot  point  in  our  choicest  dialect, 
not  unaided  by  our  hands — so  hot,  that  we 
hardly  noticed  at  first  the  unwonted  arrival  of 
two  English  strangers.  The  epithet,  indeed, 
may  be  considered  superfluous,  for  we  spoke  of 
2^forestieri2X  Vicenza  as  Inglesi. 

They  were  of  the  tourist  species ;  we  knew 
it  at  once  by  the  discriminative  marks  of  a 
small  red  book,  and  a  pair  of  opera-glasses 
hung  in  a  leather  case  over  their  left  shoul- 
ders.     Both   were    young   and  good-looking 
specimens.     Mariana  and  I  fell  apart  to  stare 
at  them,  one  on  each  side  of  the  covered  way, 
so  that  the  tourists  had  to  walk  the  gauntlet 
up   the  midst  between   us.     We    stood  and 
stared  open-mouthed,  with  the  frank  and  un- 
disguised  curiosity  of  our  age  and  station. 
Mariana  sucked  her  thumb  to  aid  her  in  star- 
ing.     We  had  not  yet  learned  the  artificial 
conventionalities  of  maidenly  modesty. 

I  am  bound  to  admit,  however,  that  if  we 


the  arcade 
to  play  at 
wanted  to 
the  battle, 
h  a  lovely 
th  discuss- 
;st  dialect, 
t,  that  we 
1  arrival  of 
let,  indeed, 
ve  spoke  of 

;  we  knew 
narks  of  a 
jera-glasses 

left  shoul- 
Dod-looking 
art  to  stare 
)vered  way, 
\ie  gauntlet 

stood  and 
,nk  and  un- 
ind  station, 
her  in  star- 
he  artificial 
2sty. 
,  that  if  we 


Of  Meetings  7 

stared  at  the  tourists,  the  tourists  returned  the 
stare  with  interest.  More  than  that,  they  criti- 
cised us  with  charming  unreserve  in  their  own 
language.  "  Not  bad  little  ragamufifins  ! "  the 
elder  of  the  two  remarked,  with  an  air  of  vast 
British  superiority  to  the  mere  unkempt  Italian 
peasant.  *'  Picturesque  enough  in  their  way. 
Good  pieces  of  colour  in  their  head-kerchiefs 
and  petticoats." 

How  do  I  know  what  they  said  ?  Well,  that 
is  my  business.  But  since  it  is  /who  am  tell- 
ing this  story  and  yott  who  are  listening  to  it, 
we  may  as  well  set  ourselves  straight  on  that 
subject  now,  at  the  very  outset.  Let  it  be 
granted  that 't  is  impossible  for  anybody  really 
to  recollect  the  full  details  of  his  or  her  own 
childhood.  Our  mental  picture  is  made  up  of 
endless  confused  touches,  each  blurred  in  the 
outline,  from  the  mass  of  which  nevertheless 
there  stands  out  for  ourselves  a  clear  and  vivid 
general  Impression.  It  is  that  general  Impres- 
sion that  we  wish  to  reproduce  for  others  when 
we  describe  our  early  days ;  and  we  can  only 
reproduce  it  by  filling  in  the  details  a  great  deal 
more  precisely  than  each  exists  in  our  own 
memories.  So,  in  reporting  these  ensuing  con- 
versations, I  mean  to  tell  you,  not  so  much 

> 


8 


Rosalba 


what  I  remember  to  have  been  actually  said,  as 
what  I  believe  or  imagine  was  the  gist  of  each 
episode.  And  now  that  we  have  set  that  matter 
straight  once  for  all,  I  shall  go  on  with  my  nar- 
rative. Do  not  blame  my  Method  till  you 
have  seen  my  results.  Bear  with  a  beginner 
who  is  feeling  her  way  in  fear  and  trembling 
along  the  thorny  and  critic-set  path  of  litera- 
ture. 

"Yes,  the  younger  one  is  pretty  enough," 
the  other  man  answered,  without  regarding 
Marianas  feelings  :  Mariana  was  two  years  my 
senior.  "  Her  nose  is  a  bit  snubby,  but  other- 
wise she  '11  do.  She  's  piquante  at  any  rate. 
And  her  big  black  eyes  are  so  full  of  wonder. 
I  call  her  a  characteristic  Italian  figure.  That 
scarlet  bow  throws  up  her  dusky  skin.  The 
elder  is  commonplace.  Nothing  distinctive 
about  her.  Might  be  Seven  Dials.  But  I 
have  half  a  mind  to  try  my  hand  at  the  little 

one." 

I  was  surprised  at  this,  for  Mariana  was  al- 
ways much  admired  for  her  pomegranate  mouth 
and  her  long  black  eyelashes,  while  I  was  con- 
sidered a  very  secondary  beauty. 

He  pulled  out  a  pencil  as  he  spoke,  and  be- 
gan jotting  down  something  in  a  sketch-book 


V 

t 
r 
t 

r 
i 

s 
f 
c 
r 

ii 

y 

c 
a 
c 

ii 
I 
n 

/ 
r 

tl 
b 
a 
o 
n 
ai 


Of  Meetings 


lly  said,  as 
•ist  of  each 
hat  matter 
th  my  nar- 
d  till  you 
a  beginner 
trembling 
h  of  litera- 

y  enough," 
regarding 
'o  years  my 
,  but  other- 
t  any  rate, 
of  wonder, 
jure.  That 
skin.  The 
distinctive 
ils.  But  I 
It  the  little 

iana  was  al- 
mate  mouth 
;  I  was  con- 

ike,  and  be- 
sketch-book 


which  he  carried.  I  stood  with  one  foot  held 
up  in  my  hand  behind  me.  As  he  looked  up  at 
me  and  then  down  at  the  paper  from  time  to 
time,  I  recognised  at  once  that  he  was  "  taking 
my  likeness,"  and  assumed  a  self-conscious  air 
in  consequence.  As  for  Mariana,  thus  slighted, 
she  glanced  over  his  shoulder  as  the  candid 
friend,  sucking  her  thumb  critically,  and  with- 
drawing it  now  and  then  to  make  uncompli- 
mentary remarks  about  both  sitter  and  artist 
in  our  native  Italian.  "It 'snot  one  bit  like 
your  nose,  Rosalba  !  Nepptir  per  sogno  !  He 
can't  draw  as  well  as  our  boys  can  draw  with 
a  bit  of  chalk  on  the  wall.  I  call  him  a  poor 
creature — non  vale  un  soldo.  But  he 's  making 
it,  oh,  ever  so  much  too  pretty  for  you,  dear ! 
If  /were  drawing  you,  I  wouldn't  put  your 
nose  the  least  like  that.  And  the  drt  !  oh, 
poverina,  it 's  not  your  dress  at  all !  It 's  quite 
ridiculous ! " 

"  The  children  appear  to  be  judges  of  art  on 
the  Monti  Berici,  Wingham,"  the  elder  man 
broke  in  at  last,  with  a  curious  smile,  catching 
a  part  of  our  patois,  for  he  knew  some  words 
of  Italian.  But,  to  our  great  delight,  he  pro- 
nounced the  name  of  our  mountains  with  the 
accent  on  the  wrong  syllable.     Now,  nothing 


f 


lO 


Rosalba 


amuses  Italians  more  than  the  hash  that  foreign- 
ers make  of  their  accents.  I  burst  out  laugh- 
ing in  his  face.  "  He  says  Berici,  Mariana, 
instead  of  Be'rict"  I  cried  in  derision. 

The  elder  man,  in  grey,  whose  name,  we  had 
observed,  was  Stodmarsh,  coloured  up  strongly 
as  I  spoke.     I  did  not  discover  till  rr.uch  later 
in    life    that   he    fancied    himself   an    Italian 
scholar,  and  gave  himself  airs  wilh  his  friend 
the   artist   on   the   strength  of   his  supposed 
mastery  of  the  choicest  Tuscan.     "Ha!   it's 
pronounced  Berry-chy,   then,   not  Ber-eechy" 
he  said  in  a  short,  snappy  voice,  collusively 
crushing.     "That's  the  worst  of  these  local 
Italian  names;   one  never  can   know  before- 
hand what  the  people  of  the  place  are  going 
to  call  them.     The  error,  of  course,  is  natural. 
It  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  knowledge  of 
the  language,  as  such,  than  the  pronunciation 
of  some  of  our  English  local  names  has  to  do 
with  a  man's  fitness  to  lecture  on  Shakespeare. 
Me-opham  in  Kent,  for  example,  is  pronounced 
Meppam,  and  Bovey  in  Devonshire  is  simply 

Buvvy."  y 

The  younger  man  took  n6  notice  of  his 
friend's  remark,  which  did  not  seem  to  interest 
him,  but  went  on  sketching  my  face  and  figure 


n 
it 
a 
h 
ir 
si 
is 
b^ 


in 
w 
S 

te 
w 
th 

a 

th 
or 

P« 

th 

of 
sk 

W( 

hi 

wl 


Of  Meetings 


II 


that  foreign- 
st  out  laugh- 
V/,  Mariana, 
sion. 

ame,  we  had 
i  up  strongly 
11  rr.uch  later 
•    an    Italian 
ih  his  friend 
lis  supposed 
"Ha!   it's 
t  Ber-eechy" 
2,  collusively 
f  these  local 
inow  before- 
ice  are  going 
se,  is  natural, 
knowledge  of 
pronunciation 
nes  has  to  do 
Shakespeare. 
is  pronounced 
lire  is  simply 

notice  of  his 
em  to  interest 
ace  and  figure 


in  different  attitudes.  I  danced  about  accord- 
ingly. "  I  shan't  have  such  another  chance 
again,  perhaps,"  he  observed  in  explanation, 
holding  his  book  at  arm's  length  and  examin- 
ing his  work  critically  with  his  head  on  one 
side.  "  She  wears  the  native  cost  me,  which 
is  so  rare  nowadays.  Besides,  the  little  flib- 
bertygibbet  's  pretty  !  " 

"  Has  character  too,"  the  other  added. 
*'  Yes ;  that  small,  mobile,  daintily  protrud- 
ing chin   always   means   character — a  strong 
will,  but   capricious.     It  is  a  whimsical  chin. 
She  will  live  to  fascinate." 

The  elder  man  regarded  him  with  con- 
temptuous toleration.  "  Well,  I  hope  you 
won't  be  long,"  h^  said,  casting  an  eye  towards 
the  white  dome  of  the  Madonna  del  Monte. 
"  I  particularly  wish  to  see  this  Montagna  in 
the  church  ;  it 's  starred  in  Baedeker.  That 's 
one  of  the  worst  faults  I  have  to  find  with  you 
painter  fellows,  Wingham.  You  come  to  Italy, 
the  fatherland  of  art,  and  yet  you  think  more 
of  making  your  own  wretched  little  modern 
sketches  than  of  looking  at  all  the  wonderful 
works  the  really  big  men  have  bequeathed  to 
humanity.  I  pointed  that  out  in  London, 
when  we  were  starting  on  this  trip.     A  fellow 

1 


12 


Rosalba 


I  know  said  to  me  at  the  club  :  '  How  nice  for 
you  that  Arthur  Wingham  is  going  with  you  ! 
It  must  be  such  an  advantage  to  visit  Italy  in 
company  with  an  artist ! '  And  I  answered  : 
'  Don't  you  believe  it,  my  dear  sir.  I  know 
what  Wingham  will  be  doing  all  the  time. 
Instead  of  standing  awestruck  before  Michael 
Angelo  and  Raphael,  he  '11  be  fidgeting  over 
little  studies  of  his  own  every  minute — pict- 
uresque small  beggar-children'"  —  he  waved 
his  hand  demonstratively  towards  Mariana  and 
me — "  '  or  red-sailed  fishing-boats  off  the  quays 
at  Venice  ! ' " 

The  man  in  brown,  called  Wingham,  closed 
his  sketch-book  hastily.  "  You  're  right,  Stod- 
marsh,"  he  answered,  colouring  up  in  turn,  for 
he  was  naturally  sensitive.  "  You  touch  it  with 
a  needle.  It  makes  me  ashamed  to  think  I 
should  be  scribbling  wretched  sketches,  which  I 
could  do  in  London,  after  all,  when  this  may 
be  my  one  chance  of  seeing  Italy." 

He  popped  the  book  into  his  pocket,  se- 
curely fastened  by  its  elastic  band,  and  moved 
on  towards  the  big  church.  We  danced  around 
them  as  they  went.  "  Let  us  see  the  Mon- 
tagna,"  he  continued,  slowly,  "  which  is  starred 
in   Baedeker."     He  fell  into  a  musing  vein. 


y 

si 

Ul 

St 

n( 
W 

g' 
th 

e> 

hi 
th 
ac 
M 

St 

isl 
wi 
as 

yc 
sa 

sti 
fo 
to 

Tl 
tw 


Of  Meetings 


n 


How  nice  for 

ng  with  you  ! 

visit  Italy  in 

I  answered  : 

sir.      I  know 

all  the  time. 

if  ore  Michael 

idgeting  over 

minute — pict- 

'  —  he  waved 

3  Mariana  and 

off  the  quays 

igham,  closed 
re  right,  Stod- 
ip  in  turn,  for 
u  touch  it  with 
ed  to  think  I 
itches,  which  I 
hen  this  may 

r" 

• 

is  pocket,  se- 
id,  and  moved 
ianced  around 
see  the  Mon- 
hich  is  starred 
musing  vein. 


"  Think  of  that !  Starred  in  Baedeker !— And 
yet,  after  all,  Montagna  was  young  once,  I 
suppose,  and  wandered  on  these  hills,  just  like 
us,  in  springtime,  and  made  sketches  and 
studies  of  peasants  and  their  heads — and  was 
not  yet  an  old  master,  nor  starred  in  Baedeker." 
He  paused  for  a  second  and  gazed  at  the  great 
grey  town.  "  No  man,  when  one  comes  to 
think  of  it,  Stodmarsh,  is  dorn  ready-starred — 
except,  of  course,  St.  Dominic  :  he  has  to  earn 
his  star ;  and  when  he  has  earned  it  even  from 
the  judicious  Baedeker,  you  look  at  him  and 
admire  him.  But  would  you  have  admired 
Montagna,  that 's  the  question  "—he  struck  his 
stick  on  the  ground — "before  Baedeker  ex- 
isted  :  when  he  was  wandering  on  these  slopes, 
with  a  sketch-book  in  his  pocket,  jotting  notes 
as  he  went  of  sun-brown  Italian  children  ?  " 

The  man  in  grey  looked  huffy.  "Oh,  if 
you  intend  to  be  didactic,"  he  interposed,  "  and 
satirical  as  well,  I  think  we  had  better  make 
straight  for  the  church.  Satire  is  no^  your 
forte.  I  prefer  even  your  thumb-nail  sketches 
to  your  satire." 

I  have  said  that  they  were  both  young. 
The  one  called  Wingham  I  judged  to  be  about 
twenty — at  least,  he  looked  of  an   aee  with 

? 

I 


14  Rosalba 

Gabriele  Valmarano,  whom  we  knew   to  be 
over  nineteen.     The  other,  Stodmarsh  (who 
had  a  squarer  and    more   portly  figure,  very 
thick-set   for  his   years),    I    imagined   to    be 
twenty-two  or  thereabouts.     Arthur  VVingham 
had   poetic  ,1  features   and  a  budding   black 
moustache,— mere  lines  faintly  pencilled  on  his 
upper  lip,— which  he  caressed  somewhat  oftener 
than   its  size  seemed  to  justify.     John  Stod- 
marsh  was  close-shaven,  with  a  solid  chin  and 
that  clear-cut,  logical,  doctrinaire  type  of  face 
which  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life  betokens  a 
coachman,  and  in  the  upper  a  political  eco- 
nomist.    I  know  that  now  ;  at  the  time  I  only 
thought  it  most  sober  and  quizzical. 

They  strolled  into  the  church,  and  presuma- 
bly proceeded  to  examine  the  Montagna,  what- 
ever that  might  be.     Mariana  and  I  trooped 
in  close  after  them,  as  is  the  nature  of  Italian 
childhood ;  \i\i^vi  forestieri  came  to  admire  our 
Madonna,  we  always  accompanied  them   to 
watch  the  effect  our  sanctuary  produced.     We 
also  wanted  to  discover  this  mysterious  Mon- 
tagna, of  which  till  then  we  had  never  heard. 
But  we  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  our 
tourists'   knowledge  of    Italian   must  be  ex- 
tremely slight ;   for  they  went  straight  up  to 


Of  Meetings 


»5 


{new   to  be 
marsh  (who 

figure,  very 
[ined  to  be 
ur  VVingham 
idcling  black 
Killed  on  his 
;what  oftener 
John  Stod- 
)lid  chin  and 

type  of  face 
i  betokens  a 
political  eco- 
,e  time  I  only 
:al. 

and  presuma- 
mtagna,  what- 
ind  I  trooped 
ure  of  Italian 
to  admire  our 
lied  them  to 
■oduced.  We 
sterious  Mon- 
i  never  heard, 
usion  that  our 

must   be  ex- 
itraight  up  to 


the  old-fashioned  altar-piece  on  the  right  of 
the  high  a.'tar,  and  began  sraring  hard  at  the 
(jueer  dark  picture  and  calling  //  the  Mon- 
tagna.  Now,  we  knew  very  well  this  was  no- 
thing of  the  sort ;  for  "t  was  really  Our  Lady  and 
the  blessed  saints  mourning  over  the  dead  body 
of  the  Signore,  which  we  speak  of  as  a  Piet^ 
The  elementary  religious  ignorance  these  /n- 
glcsi  displayed  in  calling  that  a  Montagna  sur- 
prised and  shocked  us.  But  we  remembered 
what  mother  had  often  told  us,  that  most 
Englishmen  were  atheists. 

What  made  the  impression  still  more  pain- 
ful was  the  duplicity  of  old  Giuseppe,  the  sac- 
ristan ;    for   that   bad  old  man,   hearing   the 
forestieri  describe  this  Piet^  as  a  Montagna, 
aided  and  abetted  them  in  their  error  with  base 
compliance,  instead  of  withstanding  them  to 
their  faces,  as  I  had  done  in  the  matter  of  the 
word  Berici.      He  murmured  in  acquiescence, 
''Si  si;  Montagna,"  and  wagged  his  shaky 
head  sapiently,  and  waited  about,  rubbing  his 
hands  in  expectation  of  a  few   sous,  with   a 
mendacious  servility  that  quite  astonished  us. 
For  we  knew  he  understood  p'^rfectly  well  that 
this  was  really  the  Blessed  Madonna  and  the 
dead  Signore;  since  he  had  often  explained 


\ 


i6 


Rosalba 


the  meaning  of  the  picture  to  us,  and  had  even 
told  us  which  of  the  grand  ladies  around  was 
the  blessed  Magdalen,  with  her  alabaster  box 
of  ointment,  very  precious,  and  which  was  San 
Giovanni,  and  which  Giuseppe  of  Arimathea, 
his  patron  and  namesake.      We  were  Italians, 
and  our  respect  for  truth  was  not  quixotic  ;  we 
handled  it  carelessly  ourselves  at  times :  but 
this  cringing  concession  to  the  ignorance  and 
prejudice  of  the  stranger  heretics— merely  be- 
cause they  were  known  to  be  dispensers  of 
soldi — set  our  patriot  backs  up. 

Still,   we    sauntered   round  the    big,  bare 
church,  following  the   man   Stodmarsh,  who 
stalked  about  in  the  most  businesslike  way, 
with  his  little  red  book  in  his  hand,  reading 
every  line  as  he  went,  and  evidently  engaged 
in  the  favourite  tourist  pursuit  of  verifying 
Baedeker.     We  could  see  at  a  glance  he  was  a 
tourist  who  understood  his  trade  ;  because  he 
stopped  the  proper  length  of  time,  as  by  cus- 
tom established,  no  more  and  no  less,  before 
each  separate  statue  or  altar-piece.     Strangers, 
we  knew,  always  stood  longest  and  gazed  up 
hardest  before  the  soaring  work  that  Giuseppe 
described  as  the  Mass  of  St.  Gregory ;   they 
also  listened  with  marked  attention  while  he 


Of  Meetings 


17 


?,  and  had  even 
ies  around  was 
•  alabaster  box 
which  was  San 

of  Arimathea, 
;  were  Italians, 
ot  quixotic ;  we 

at  times:  but 
:  ignorance  and 
ics — merely  be- 
3  dispensers  of 

the  big,  bare 
Itodmarsh,  who 
isinesslike  way, 
s  hand,  reading 
idently  engaged 
jit  of  verifying 
glance  he  was  a 
ide  ;  because  he 

time,  as  by  cus- 
l  no  less,  before 
ece.  Strangers, 
st  and  gazed  up 
■k  that  Giuseppe 

Gregory;   they 
tention  while  he 


related  in  devious  detail  how  it  had  been  torn 
to  shreds  by  godless  revolutionists  and  then 
neatly  mended  again.  We  knew  that  story  by 
heart,  and  could  have  repeated  it  word  for 
word  in  the  same  quavering  recitative  as  old 
Giuseppe,  throwing  in  the  explanatory  nods 
and  waves  of  the  hand  at  all  the  right  points, 
so  as  to  make  it  more  comprehensible  to  the 
poor  ignorant  forestieri.  Now,  Stodmarsh 
went  round  and  looked  and  listened  at  each  of 
the  wonted  places,  according  to  Baedeker  and 
old  Giuseppe  ;  so  we  could  tell  at  once  he  was 
a  traveller  who  knew  something  about  travel. 
He  understood  how  the  Madonna  del  Monte 
ought  to  be  visited  by  one  who  wished  to  fulfil 
the  whole  duty  of  a  tourist ! 

But  the  man  in  brown,  called  Wingham,  how 
he  puzzled  us  !  Instead  of  walking  once  right 
round  the  church,  as  he  ought  to  have  done, 
and  stopping  like  a  docile  pupil  wherever 
Giuseppe  told  him,  so  as  to  admire  the  proper 
things  in  due  proportion,  this  singular  person 
spent  a  ridiculously  long  time  standing  before 
the  picture  of  Our  Lady  and  the  Signore,  with 
his  mouth  half  open,  and  staring  at  it  as  Maso, 
the  idiot  of  the  hill,  stares  at  passers-by  when 
he  does  n't  recognise  them.     He  kept  gazing 


i8 


Rosalba 


at  it  first  from  one  side  and  then  from  the 
other,  with  his  hand  shading  his  eyes :  stand- 
ing near  it  now,  and  then  far  away  from  it ; 
peering  close  into  parts  of  it  that  were  quite 
uninteresting,  and  catching  bits  of  the  back- 
ground (where  there  were  no  figures  at  all)  in 
different  lights,  after  the  silliest  fashion.  Mari- 
ana and   I   stood  behind,   and    tittered  and 
giggled.     It  was  quite  clear  this  young  man 
knew  absolutely  nothing  about  the  complete 
art  of  being  a  tourist.     He  behaved  so  foolishly 
that  Mariana  took  pity   upon  his  innocence 
and  stupidity  at  last,  and,  pointing  to  the  fig- 
ure in  the  centre  of  the  picture  said  distinctly, 
''Quest a  b    la   Satitissima    Maddalena/"    at 
which  the  man  in  brown  only  smiled,  and  an- 
swered softly  in  very  doubtful  Italian,  "  Si,  si, 
my  child,  I  know  ;  but  just  look  at  her  robe ; 
how  exquisitely,  how   superbly   that  hem  is 
painted ! "     Then  we  both  tittered  again,  be- 
cause he  not  only  used  the  wrong  word  for 
hem,  but  also  made  it  feminine  ! 

After  he  had  finished  with  the  Pieti  (from 
which  he  withdrew  his  eyes  with  a  regretful 
air,  because  Stodmarsh  called  him),  he  walked 
all  round  the  church,  not  looking  at  the  right 
things  at  all,  and   muttering  wearily,  "  Yes, 


\ 


Of  Meetings 


19 


en  from  the 
eyes :  stand- 
way  from  it ; 
t  were  quite 
of  the  back- 
jres  at  all)  in 
ishion.  Mari- 
tittered  and 
5  young  man 
the  complete 
id  so  foolishly 
lis  innocence 
ng  to  the  fig- 
iaid  distinctly, 
idalena  !  "    at 
niled,  and  an- 
;alian,  "  Si,  si, 
:  at  her  robe ; 
that  hem  is 
red  again,  be- 
ong  word  for 

le  PietJi  (from 
ith  a  regretful 
im),  he  walked 
ig  at  the  right 
wearily,  "Yes, 


yes  ! "  when  Giuseppe  directed  his  attention 
to  the  Mass  of  St.  Gregory,  but  stopping  now 
and  then  to  examine  some  rose-marble  column 
or  some  alabaster  relief  of  odd  little  saints  in 
the  act  of  martyrdom — things  which  no  tourist 
before  had  ever  admired — sometimes  even 
things  that  Mariana  and  I,  who  were  not 
tourists  at  all,  used  to  look  at  with  interest 
because  they  were  so  funny.  '•  Very  quaint ! " 
he  called  them.  His  delight  in  these  trifles 
justly  annoyed  better-informed  Mr.  Stodmarsh, 
who  kept  on  calling  out,  "  Come  on,  come  on  ! 
You  know  we  have  still  to  see  Palladio's 
Rotonda."  And  Wingham  answered  almost 
angrily,  "  Oh,  confound  Palladio,  and  confound 
his  Rotonda!"  Indeed — and  here  I  trust  to 
my  memory — he  used  a  stronger  expression, 
which  that  artificially  cultivated  maidenly 
modesty  I  spoke  about  just  now  prevents  me 
from  transcribing.  But  still,  he  used  it.  Maid- 
enly modesty  may  conceal  facts ;  it  cannot  alter 
them.  As  for  old  Giuseppe,  he  fingered  his 
stubbly  chin,  and  eyed  the  man  in  brown  as 
one  eyes  a  suspected  lunatic. 

Of  course  we  followed  them  out  of  the 
church  as  we  had  followed  them  into  it.  We 
did  not  want  to  be  obtrusive,  but  we  always 


20 


Rosalba 


held   it  a  point  of  hospitality   personally   to 
conduct  the  stranger  round  the  Monti  Berici. 
We    would    not  even   have  grudged  trailing 
after  our  new  friends  as  far  as  the  station  at 
Vicenza,  so  high  was  our  sense  of  our  duty 
towards  the  foreigner.     But  outside  the  church, 
after  he  had  dropped  half  a  franc  into  Giusep- 
pe's expectant  though  unwashed  palm,  the  man 
in  brown  paused  again  and  stared  at  me.     "I 
must  have  another  try  at  that  child,"  he  ex- 
claimed in  an  apologetic  voice,  half  turning  to 
Stodmarsh.     "I    can't  quite   catch   the   little 
sprite.     Her  face  is  so  elusive  ! " 

I  did  not  feel  sure  whe.  er  to  be  called  a 
sprite  and  described  as  elusive  was  compliment- 
ary or  otherwise ;  but  I  gave  my  tourist  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  and,  showing  my  white 
row  of  Italian  teeth,  smiled  on  him  benignly. 

This  was  too  much  for  Mariana,  who  was 
always  considered  prettier  than  I,  and  whose 
vanity  was  hurt  because  the  artist  had  not 
sketched  her  demure  face  as  well  as  my  roguish 
one ;  so  she  gave  me  a  push  on  the  church 
seeps  which  nearly  knocked  me  over. 

I  recovered  my  balance  with  dignity,  and 
determined  that  this  conduct  should  not  be 
repeated.     I  looked  right  into  her  eyes,  there- 


Of  Meetings 


21 


jersonally  to 
Monti  Berici. 
dged  trailing 
the  station  at 
of  our  duty 
de  the  church, 
:  into  Giusep- 
Dalm,  the  man 
:d  at  me.  "  I 
child,"  he  ex- 
lalf  turning  to 
tch   the   little 


fore,  and  observed  with  spirit  in  my  shrillest 
voice : 

'' Naow,  then,  Marier-Ann,   if  you  do  that 
agin,  I  shall  goo  stright  in  an  tell  your  mother  /  " 


:o  be  called  a 
,s  compliment- 
ny  tourist  the 
ring  my  white 
im  benignly, 
ana,  who  was 
I,  and  whose 
irtist  had  not 
[  as  my  roguish 
on  the  church 
over. 

li  dignity,  and 
should  not  be 
ler  eyes,  there- 


> 


CHAPTER  II 


AFTER  THE  EXPLOSION 


THESE  few  simple  words— spoken  I  am 
assured  in  a  fine  cockney  accent — pro- 
duced an  effect  upon  our  tourists  which  fairly 
astonished  us. 

Arthur  Wingham  stood  still  and  gazed  at 
me,  with  his  mouth  agape,  as  he  had  gazed  at 
the  Pieta.  One  might  have  ima^med  he  had 
never  heard  anybody  speak  English  before,  so 
breathless  was  his  amazement.  He  fell  back 
a  pace  or  two,  and  regarded  me  with  fixed 
eyes.  Then  he  stammered  out  in  a  slow 
voice,  "  Why— this  child— is  a  Londoner ! " 

I  drew  myself  up  very  straight  and  replied 
with  dignity,  **  Of  course  I  'm  a  Londoner  !" 

Pride  has  ever  been  my  besetting  sin.     I  was 
proud   of  my  birth    as   I   was  proud  of  my 

ancestry. 

•*  Then  you  're  not  Italian  at  all ! "   he  went 


( 
t 
c 

g 

1 

1 
I 
c 

I 
I 

c 
ii 

a 
f 
f 
( 
t 
o 
ii 


23 


I 


spoken  I  am 
accent — pro- 
which  fairly 

and  gazed  at 

had  gazed  at 

gfined  he  had 

iish  before,  so 

He  fell  back 
le  with  fixed 
It  in  a  slow 
ondoner ! " 
It  and  replied 
Londoner ! " 
ng  sin.     I  was 

proud  of  my 

all!"   he  went 


After  the  Explosion 


23 


I 


on,  observing  me  with  a  subdued  air  of  pained 
regret.  He  seemed  to  think  I  had  succeeded  in 
getting  my  portrait  drawn  under  false  pretences. 

"  Of  course  I  'm  Italian  !"  I  answered  again, 
cutting  a  quick  little  caper  which  ought  alone 
to  have  vouched  for  my  nationality.  To  a 
child  of  ten,  everything  is  "  of  course."  He  or 
she  expects  the  stranger  to  know  what  to  him  or 
her  is  a  familiar  piece  of  common  knowledge. 

John  Stodmarsh,  knitting  his  brows,  brought 
his  logical  intelligence  to  bear  upon  the  pro- 
blem. "  Oh,  I  see,"  he  interposed,  with  an  air 
of  conviction.  "  Don't  you  catch  at  it.  Wing- 
ham  ?    These  are  organ-grinders'  children." 

Organ-grinders,  indeed !  The  blood  of  the 
Lupari  boiled  within  me.  "  My  Pa 's  not  an 
organ-grinder ! "  I  cried,  just  indignation  find- 
ing words  spontaneously. 

"  He  was  employed  at  Gatti's,"  Mariana 
added  with  a  saucy  toss  of  her  pretty  head : 
for  in  the  poor  Italian  colony  in  London,  whose 
feelings  we  still  retained,  to  be  employed  at 
Gatti's  was  as  a  patent  of  nobility.  It  dis- 
tinguished one  immediately  from  the  vendors 
of  icf  cream,  or  the  purveyors  of  works  of  art 
in  plaster  of  Paris. 

"  Ah,  just  so.     A  waiter  !  "  John  Stodmarsh 


H 


Rosalba 


put  in ;  and  we  both  hated  him  for  it :  for  our 
papa  had  been  a  grand  gentleman  in  a  black 
tail-coat  and  a  white  tie  in  London — so  grand, 
indeed,  that  we  children  were  not  even  allowed 
to  nod  recognition  if  we  met  him  in  his  official 
dress  near  the  Adelaide  Gallery.  It  hurt  our 
tenderest  feelings  that  this  mere  tourist  in  a 
grey  tweed  suit — a  common  crush-hatted,  red- 
book-ridden  tourist— should  say  "  A  waiter ! " 
in  such  a  contemptuous  tone  of  so  grand  a 
personage.  The  blood  of  the  Lupari  rose 
once  more  to  212°  Fahrenheit. 

"He  was  a  waiter  m  London"  Mariana  put 
in— I  have  no  doubt  what  she  really  said  was 
more  like  "witer";  "but  he  has  retired  from 
business" — she  swelled  with  conscious  im- 
portance, for  Mariana  always  thought  a  great 
deal  of  herself  and  her  family— "and  now, 
he  is  a  landowner  here  on  the  Monte  Berico." 
John  Stodmarsh  looked  at  Arthur  Wingham, 
Arthur  Wingham  looked  at  John  Stodmarsh. 
Then  both  burst  out  laughing.  Stodmarsh's 
laugh  was  stolid  British  ;  the  painter's  was 
shy ;  it  proceeded  rather  from  embarrassment 
than  from  amusement. 

"But  if  so — you  have  understood  all  we 
said,"  he  stammered  out  abruptly. 


r  it :  for  our 

n  in  a  black 

1 — so  grand, 

:ven  allowed 

in  his  official 

It  hurt  our 

tourist  in  a 

i-hatted,  red- 

*  A  waiter ! " 

so  grand  a 

Lupari   rose 

Mariana  put 
ally  said  was 
retired  from 
jnscious  im- 
ught  a  great 
—•'and  now, 
mte  Berico." 
ur  Wingham, 
1  Stodinarsh. 
Stodmarsh's 
painter's  was 
nbarrassment 

stood  all  we 


After  the  Explosion 


25 


I 


He  spoke  in  so  regretful  a  tone  that  I  for- 
gave him  at  once  for  having  called  my  poor 
little  nose  "  a  bit  snubby."  He  was  clearly 
ashamed  of  himself,  though  it  was  the  unre- 
pentant Stodmarsh,  after  all,  who  had  ventured 
to  describe  us  as  "  picturesque  little  Italian 
beggar-children." 

"  Of  course,"  Mariana  answered,  with  a  be- 
coming curl  of  her  supercilious  lip — whatever 
else  I  may  have  said  or  thought  of  Mariana, 
I  have  never  denied  that  she  was  and  is 
extremely  pretty.  "  Ain't  we  born  London- 
ers?" 

Arthur  Wingham's  confusion  and  vexation 
were  manifest.  "It  never  occurred  to  me, 
Stodmarsh,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  turning  to 
his  friend,  "  that  these  children  could  possibly 
understand  English." 

"  Oh,  it  does  n't  much  matter,"  Stodmarsh 
answered,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "  Though  we 
might  have  known — p'f,  p'f — they  were  not 
likely  to  be  real  Italians,  they're  so  theatri- 
cally Italian  in  dress  and  get-up." 

I  flared  once  more.  "  We  are  real  Italians," 
I  exclaimed  aggressively.  "  My  Pa 's  a  Gari- 
baldian."  I  fired  the  fact  point-blank  at  him, 
like  a  Martini-Henry. 


36 


Ros.'iIIki 


"Revolutionary  ruffians!"  the  man  in  prey 
respondecl,  between  his  puffs.  ^ 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  here  ?     the  art- 
ist asked,  still  hot  and  uneasy. 

"Two  years,"  1  answered.      "But,  all  the 
same,  we  ain't  forgotten  London." 

This  will  fully  explain  to  you,  1  hope,  how 
it  was  that  we  understood  what  the  tounsts 
said  to  one  another.     Also,  you  may  now  per- 
haps perceive  why  I  did  not  unfold  as  much  to 
you  from  the  first ;  which  casts  light  on  my 
Method      (Every  novelist  nowadays  cultivates 
a  Method.)     If  I  had  told  you  at  the  begin- 
nine   the   revelation   would  have  lacked  the 
element  of  surprise.     And  that  further  demon- 
strates, as    has  been   remarked   before,  how 
Wisdom  is  justified  of  all  her  children. 

"Our  Ma's  English,"  Mariana  observed, 
looking  up  at  the  two  astonished  men  with  her 
coquettish  eyes  wide  open. 

"  At  least,  she 's  Irish,"  I  corrected.  I  was 
aware  that  a  taste  difference  separated  Irish 
from  English  ;  and,  while  anxious  to  uphold 
the  honour  of  the  Lupari,  I  did  not  desire  to 
bolster  it  up  under  false  pretences. 

"  Noble  London  twangs  they  've  got,  cer- 
tainly "  Stodmarsh  remarked  in  a  patronising 


After  the  Explosion 


17 


lan  in  j^jrey 
? "  the  art- 
Jut,  all  the 

[  hope,  how 
the  tourists 
ay  now  per- 
.  as  much  to 
ight  on  my 
ys  cultivates 
t  the  begin- 
lacked  the 
ther  demon- 
before,  how 
lildren. 
la  observed, 
tnen  with  her 

;ted.  I  was 
parate?d  Irish 
us  to  uphold 
not  desire  to 

:S. 

've  got,  cer- 
a  patronising 


aside.  I  winced,  but  recognised  that  he  owed 
me  a  return  for  my  open  ridicule  of  his  pro- 
nunciation of  Berici. 

And  noble  London  twangs  we  had,  no  doubt. 
I  cannot  deny  it.  Still,  I  will  not  endeavour 
here  to  repioduce  our  peculiar  form  of  speech 
as  it  existed  at  that  moment.  I  am  not  an 
adept  in  the  cockney  tongue ;  I  have  forgot- 
ten it  as  utterly  as  the  Tichborne  Claimant  for- 
got his  French,  and  could  scarcely  now  write 
it  down  correctly,  were  it  but  as  a  literary  ex- 
ercise. Years  of  intercourse  with  cultivated 
speakers,  both  in  English  and  in  Italian,  have 
so  killed  that  past,  both  for  Mariana  and  for 
me,  that  we  fail  even  to  recall  it  accurately. 
Everybody  who  has  heard  Mariana  in  Gounod's 
Faust  knows  how  exquisitely  clear  and  pure 
are  *'  The  Lupari's  "  pronunciation  and  articu- 
lation in  either  of  our  alternative  mother 
tongues.  But  we  must  then  have  spoken  like 
all  our  neighbours.  Indeed,  when  I  first  re- 
visited the  Monti  Berici  in  my  later  days,  I 
had  difficulty  in  understanding  what  my  old 
friends  the  Valmarani  and  the  Rodari  said  to 
me.  You  must  forgive  me,  therefore,  if,  after 
the  one  specimen  of  our  speech  which  I  first 
flung  before  your  eyes,  I  abstain  from  the  at- 


■  '-"mk 


jg  Rosalba 

tempt  lo  write  out  our  childish  sayings  in  the 
now  unfamiliar  cockney  dialect. 

I  will  further  confess  that  even  that  one  httle 
specimen  itself  is  not  wholly  due  to  my  unaided 
memory.     There  still  exists,  framed  and  hung 
on  tho  wall  of   Arthur  Wingham's  studio    a 
stray  page  from  his  first  Italian  sketch-book : 
it  contains  a  rough   drawing   of  a  wild  and 
stray-haired  Vicenzan  girl,  in  native  costume 
wearing  an  ineffable  expression  of  monkeyish 
perversity  ;  beneath  which  are  inscribed  those 
precise  words,  taken  down  on  the  spot,  "  Naow 
then,  Marier-Ann,  if  you  do  that  agin.  I  shall 
gao   stright  in   an'   tell  your  mother.        by 
means  of  this  priceless  piece  of  documentary 
evidence  saved  from  the  wreck  of   years,  as 
well  as  by  my  own  and  the  painter's  memories, 
I  have  pieced  together  the  scene  as   I  now 

relate  it  for  you. 

"  But  this  is  very  interesting,"  Arthur  Wuig- 
ham  continued,  in  a  reflective  voice.  "  I  never 
thought  of  that  befo  ..  Italy  must  swarm 
with  returned  emigrants— people  who  have 
made  money  in  England,  and  who  bring  back 
their  children,  practically  as  English  boys  and 
girls,  to  Lombardy  or  Tuscany." 

"  I  went  to   Leather  Lane  Board-School, 


After  the  Explosion 


99 


ings 


in 


the 


It  one  little 
my  unaided 
d  and  hung 
3  studio,  a 
cetch-book : 
a  wild  and 
/e  costume, 
monkeyish 
:ribed  those 
)0t,  "  Naow, 
igin,  I  shall 
.then"      By 
locumentary 
of   years,  as 
's  memories, 
le  as   I  now 


Lrthur  WiiJg- 
e.  "I  never 
must  swarm 
e  who  have 
10  bring  back 
lish  boys  and 

oard-School," 


Mariana  chimed  in,  anxious  to  show  that  she 
had  had  the  advantage  of  the  best  education. 
"  Rosalba  did  n't.  She  was  n't  big  enough." 
And  she  looked  down  on  me  from  her  majestic 
height  of  three  inches  taller  with  a  calm 
expression  of  cultivated  compassion. 

"  So  this  is  Rosalba  ? "  the  artist  mused,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  my  head— and  I  felt  proud  of 
the  recognition. 

"Then  your  name  's  Marier-Ann?"  He 
glanced  inquiry  at  my  sister. 

"  No,  it  ain't,"  Mariana  replied,  colouring  up. 
"  That  's  only  what  the  girls  used  to  call  me  in 
London.  Rosalba  calls  me  so  still,  when  we 
speak  English  together,  on  purpose  to  rile  me. 
My  proper  name 's  Mariana  Lupari.  We  talk 
English  to  each  other  when  we  don't  want 
these  Italian  folks  to  understand  us." 

For  we  stood,  we  two,  on  a  rare  and  select 
pinnacle  above  the  rest  of  the  world— poised 
aloft  between  heaven  and  earth  as  natural 
international  aristocrats.  From  our  mother's 
teaching,  we  had  learned  to  despise  the  mere 
Italian  as  an  inferior  creature;  from  our 
father's,  and  indeed  from  the  universal  opinion 
of  the  Monti  Berici,  we  had  grown  to  look 
upon  Englishmen  (represented  in  our  midst 


20  Rosalba 

only  by  tourists  who  toiled  pairtfully  up  our 
hill   to  visit  the  Madonna  del  Monte)  as  an 
awkward  race  of  ignorant  barbarians,  seldom 
able  to  understand  the  most  elementary  Italian, 
but  flocking  day  after  day  in  the  same  aimless 
fashion  to  stare  at  the  same  familiar  objects 
with  the  same  bland  grin,  and  to  worry  us  with 
the    same    endless    and    imbecile    questions. 
Mariana  and  1  felt  sick  of  directing  the  be- 
wildered   creatures    from    the    door  of    the 
Madonna  to  the  Rotonda  Palladiana,  along  a 
road  well  known  to  every  child  in  the  parish. 

The  consequence  was  that  we  looked  down 
upon  the  Italians  because  they  were  not 
English,  and  looked  down  upon  the  English 
because  they  were  silly  ignoramuses. 

Our  new  friends  seated  themselves  on  the 
parapet  by  the  arcades,  where  green  lizards 
basked  in  the  sun,  and  began  to  draw  us  out. 
We  were  extremely  ductile.     It  flattered  our 
vanity  to  be  treated  as  centres  of  interest ;  and 
the  tourists  in  grey  and  brown  were  obviously 
interested  in  us.     We  told  them   everything 
about  our  family  and  friends,  magnifying  not 
a  little  the  ancestral  grandeur  and  wealth  o 
the  Lupari,  and  expatiating  on  the  fact  that 
when  we  lived  in  London  our  papa  had  a  clean 


After  the  Explosion 


31 


ifuUy  up  our 
lonte)  as  an 
rians,  seldom 
ntary  Italian, 
same  aimless 
niliar  objects 
worry  us  with 
le    questions, 
cting  the  be- 
door  of    the 
liana,  along  a 
1  the  parish. 

looked  down 
ey    were   not 
1  the  English 
ises. 
iselves  on  the 

green  lizards 
)  draw  us  out. 
t  flattered  our 
if  interest ;  and 
were  obviously 
em  everything 
nagnifying  not 

and  wealth  of 
n  the  fact  that 
apa  had  a  clean 


white  shirt-front  every  day  of  the  week,  and 
wore  a  tie  exactly  like  an  English  padre's. 
We  also  dwelt  with  pride  upon  the  extent  and 
beauty  of  our  landed  possessions— four  acres, 
nearly — and  on  our  papa's  connection  with  the 
famous  General  Garibaldi.  Mariana  talked 
most,  being  now  well  warmed  up  to  a  con- 
genial tiieme ;  the  tourists  sat  and  laughed  at 
all  her  sallies.  The  more  they  laughed,  the 
more  she  spurred  her  active  imagination.  '  Be- 
fore she  had  finished,  I  think  our  papa  had 
been  elevated  into  a  colonel  on  Garibaldi's 
staff,  and  was  shown  by  facts  to  have  been 
mainly  instrumental  in  driving  certain  strange 
wild  beasts  known  as  Austrians  out  of  Lom- 
bardy  and  Venice. 

Her  talk  was  so  racy  and  so  irresponsible 

for  Mariana  has  never  allowed  her  fancy  to  be 
restricted  by  petty  considerations  of  conform- 
ity to  fact— that  even  John  Stodmarsh  forgot 
for  a  time  his  desire  to  see  everything  that  was 
starred  in  Baedeker,  and  loitered  and  laughed 
through  the  precious  half-hours  that  ought  to 
have  been  conscientiously  devoted  to  the 
crumbling  inanities  of  the  Rotonda  Palladiana. 
The  smell  of  wine-vats  hung  on  the  air,  the 
cicalas  shrilled  to  us.     We  might  have  stood 


32 


Rosalba 


there  before  them  ail  day.  cutting  capers  and 
making  antic  faces  for    Arthur    Winghams 
sketch-book,  or  chasing  grasshoppers  to  their 
holes  with  wild  shrieks  of  laughter,  had  not 
our  mother  happened  to  notice  our  prolonged 
absence,  and  therefore  to  suspect  the  mterven- 
tion  of  tourists,  our  usual  tempters  from  the 
path  of  duty.     She  hurried  up  the  hill,  breath- 
less.      An'  for  phwat  did  n't  ye  come  home  to 
ver  dinner  ? "  she  asked  us  angrily. 
•    Mariana  mounted  her  high  horse.        We 
have  been  showing  the  church  to  a  couple  of 
English  gentlemen,"  she  answered  with  her 

habitual  dignity. 

Mother  surveyed  the  intruders  .^^ith  miti- 
gated  scorn.     An  English  gentleman  she  re- 
fpected-in  his  proper  place.  Pali  Mall ;  "but 
phwat  would  they  be  wanting  coming  to  these 
outlandish  counthries."  she  used  to  exclaim, 
•'searching    out    tumble-dhown   disrepairious 
churches,  whan  there's  foiner  buildings  to  be 
seen  in  London  than  in  the  length  and  breadth 
of  this  blessed  Italy?"     It  always  surprised 
mother  to  think  that  his  Holiness  s^^ould  con- 
sint  to  live  in  Rome,  when  'twas  Ould  O.re- 
land  that  would  have  been  glad  to  ext.nd  him 
the  roight  hand  of  welcome.     If  1  am  to  be 


After  the  Explosion 


33 


capers  and 
Wingham's 
ers  to  their 
er,  had  not 
r  prolonged 
he  interven- 
rs  from  the 
hill,  breath- 
)me  home  to 

• 

Kse.      "We 

a  couple  of 

ed  with  her 

•s  with  miti- 
:man  she  re- 
,  Mall ;  "  but 
nmg  to  these 
I  to  exclaim, 
disrepairious 
iildings  to  be 
h  and  breadth 
ays  surprised 
ss  should  con- 
as  Ould  Oire- 
to  extind  him 
f  1  am  to  be 


entirely  frank  (as  I  desire  to  be  in  these  per- 
sonal .memoirs),  I  must  admit  that  among  the 
people  for  whom  Mariana  and  I  had  a  con- 
descending contempt  I  cannot  refrain  from 
reckoning  my  mother.  As  Londoners  and 
Englishwomen,  we  were  sadly  conscious  of  her 
taint  of  m^re  Irishry. 

The  tour  "sis,  however,  succeeded  in  engag- 
ing her  agreeably  in  conversation.     My  mother 
was  affable,  when   affably   approached.     She 
imparted   to   them   her  views  on  the  Italian 
situation.     Was  it  neighbours,  indeed  ?  Sliure, 
who  would  want  to  go  an"  mix  theirselves  up 
with   a  jabberin'   pack  of   beggarly  Italians  ? 
(As   representatives  of  the  ancestral   Lupari, 
we  resented   this   insult   to   our  ancient  land 
from  a  mere  Irishwoman  like  mother.)    Barrin' 
the  priest— an  was  n't  even  the  priest  hisself, 
God  bless  him,  an  Italian  ?— who  would  she  be 
afther  wanting  to  speak  to  in  all  Veechentzer  ? 
Her    husband  ?— yes,   her    husband    was    an 
Italian    too;   but    thin,    that    was    different. 
Had  n't   he  lived  in  England,  an'  inculcated 
English   habits,   an'   larned   to   spake   like   a 
Crischun  ?     \\'hoile  these  other  Italians,  who 
had  nivver  been  furder  off  nor  Veechentzer  -n 
their  loives— who  could  understand  what  they 


j^  Rosalba 

said  bar  the  childer?    Oh,   yes,  the  chiMer 
poke  ItaUan,  as  you  moight  say,  to  the  manner 
bo°n ;  but  for  herself,  bein'  alady  *e -"Id  n 
bemane  herself  to  spake  U.     S^e  kept  her^el 
to  herself  •  and  she  laid  so  profound  an  accent 
on  that  impressive  /.  that  I  am  not  qu.te  sure 
I  ought  not  spell  it  t-double-o. 

In  these  later  years,  looking  back  upon  that 
remote  past  through  a  mist  of  t.me,  1  find  . 
hard  to  realise  that  the  queer  l.ttle  savage 
tho  made  dust-pies,  and  charmed  -calas  from 
Th^r"  annies,  and  performed  the  obsequ.es  of 
he  patriot  dead,  and  accosted  strange,  on  the 
Monte  Berico.  was  really  myself,  or  that  tne 
curious  uprooted  Irishwoman  who  regarded  all 
Itlv  as  an  outlandish  desert  was  really  my 
mother   I  seem  to  look  back  upon  >t  all  as 
:;:„  some  vague  story  1  once  read  ,„  my 
childhood.    The  truth  is,  ^^""""  ^''„'^;^, 
tangle  ourselves  from  our  acquired  P"»"^'' 
ties      and    to    me    in    Venet.a    now-dear 
•i.=nrlnkled      rose^mbowered,     mul- 
rXr   XSUll  that  early  life  appears 
toTave  been  passed  in  some  other  count,> 
to  nave  D        V  y;      ^3  then,  half  with 

t^e^^o        London  street  child,  half  with 
fhorof  an  Italian  peasant,  I  see  It  now.  If 


After  the  Explosion 


35 


the  childer 
the  manner 
\e  would  n't 
kept  herself 
id  an  accent 
>t  quite  sure 

;k  upon  that 
me,  I  find  it 
little  savage 
cicalas  from 
obsequies  of 
ingers  on  the 
,  or  that  the 
0  regarded  all 
v^s  really  my 
ipon  it  all  as 
e  read  in  my 
cannot  disen- 
red  personali- 
ia    now — dear 
awered,     mul- 
rly  life  appears 
other  country-, 
then,  half  with 
:hild,  half  with 
:  see  it  now,  if 


you  will  pardon  my  saying  so,  with  the  eyes  of 
an  educated  English  lady. 

The  gulf  is  so  immense  that  I  bridge  it  with 
difificulty. 

It  was  the  same  with  my  father's  trade.  At 
the  present  day  I  can  order  lunch  with  equa- 
nimity at  any  other  restaurant  in  London — but 
not  at  Gatti's.  I  speak  in  a  hushed  voice  to 
Gatti's  waiters.  I  ^now  what  great  gentlemen 
they  are,  and  I  feel  afraid  to  call  for  lobster 
mayonnaise  and  a  flask  of  Chianti  without 
apologetic  deference.  Are  they  not  philan- 
thropists in  disguise,  who  serve  tables  from  a 
sense  of  duty  ? 

For  a  like  reason,  you  must  provisionally 
forgive  my  picture  of  my  mother.  Do  not 
chide  me  for  unfiJial  frankness.  It  is  not  my 
fault  if  I  have  outgrown  my  surroundings. 
Besides,  to  explain  all  just  now  would  be  pre- 
mature—the grammarians  say,  proleptic.  I 
must  ask  you  to  wait,  as  part  of  my  Method. 

"  Is  it  to  show  ye  the  way  to  the  Rotonda  ?" 
mother  asked  at  last,  in  answer  to  a  request 
of  John  Stodmarsh's.  "  An'  phwat  for  would 
ye  want  to  see  the  Rotonda  at  all,  at  all  ?  'T  is 
the  desolate  tumble-dhown  edifice  it  is,  for 
annyone  in  their  sinses  to  go  an'  visit   They  '11 


36 


Rosalba 


be  charging  ye  half  a  lira  to  show  the  place  to 
ye.  an-  sorra  a  thing  is  there  in  .t  to  .how  that 
ye  would  n't  foind  better  anny  day  in  London. 
Shure.  phwat  English  gintlef oiks  would  come 
to  see  Italy  for  whan  they  might  be  visitmg  the 
grand,  majestic  scaynery  of  the  west  coast  oj 
Oireland.  wid  the  mountains  an'  the  clouds  an 
the  ruined  great  historic  castles  of  the  ould 
Oirish  kings'  is  a  thing  that  annybody  w.th  a 
brain  in  their  heads  moight  wondher  at.     But 
't  is  the  Lord's  doing,  an'   no  mistake,  tha 
whan  ye  won't  go  insoide  a  Cahthohc  church  a 
home,  ye '11  come  abroad  of  yer  own  free  will 
to  sake  for  them,  and  so  have  the  seeds  of  the 
thrue  religion  instilled  unbeknown  to  yerselves 
widin  ve.-Is  it  the  Rotonda  ye  want  ?    The 
childer  will  show  ye  the  way  to  the  Rotonda. 
if  ve  must  waste  your  money  on  a  delap.dated. 
ruinatious,  unsoightly  buildin' ;  but  momd  ye 
come  back  sthraight  from  the  door.  Mariana 
an'  bring  along  Rosalba.  or  it  s  the  palm  of 
me  hand  will  be  makin'  better  acquaintance 

"^'wT'nodded  assent  and  guided  them  to  the 
Rotonda.  which  was  indeed,  as  mother  had 
said  a  dilapidated,  ruinatious  place,  with  damp 
peeling  plaster,  and  shabby  time-stained  Ionic 


After  the  Explosion 


37 


he  place  to 
)  "ihow  that 
in  London. 
NOu\d  come 
visiting  the 
est  coast  of 
e  clouds  an' 
of  the  ould 
body  with  a 
ler  at.     But 
libtake,  that 
Uc  church  at 
jwn  free  will 
seeds  of  the 
I  to  yerselves 
want  ?    The 
the  Rotonda, 
.  delapidated, 
mt  moind  ye 
oor,  Mariana, 
i  the  palm  of 
acquaintance 

d  them  to  the 
5  mother  had 
ice,  with  damp 
i-stained  Ionic 


colonnades— a  hall  of  past  splendours,  sinking 
fast  to  the  final  stage  of  Italian  decay.  At  the 
lichen-eaten  doorway  by  the  main  entrance  our 
tourists  knocked  and  paid  their  half-lira.  We 
children  drew  back,  unable  to  accompany  them 
within  that  mysterious  portal,  on  whose  thresh- 
old we  had  stood  and  peeped  in  vain  so  often. 
Arthur  Wingham  laid  his  hand  on  my  head 
once  more  before  he  passed  through  the  door- 
way. '•  Good-bye,  Rosalba  ! "  he  said  kindly. 
"  Good-bye,  Mariana  !  I  have  got  your  por- 
traits here,  and  some  day  they  shall  hang  on 
gallery  walls  in  London  ! " 

John  Stodmarsh  gave  Mariana  half  a  franc, 
but  said  nothing. 

As  we  hastened  home,  mindful  of  mother's 
threat  (which  was  no  idle  verbiage),  I  said  to 
Mariana,  "  I  like  the  one  in  brown  best.  J^ 
piiicarino.     He  spoke  so  nice  to  us." 

Mariana  curled  her  disdainful  lip.  "The 
one  in  grey  gave  me  ten  soldi,"  she  answered. 

So  they  faded  out  of  our  lives.  Perhaps, 
save  for  what  happened  long  afterwards,  and 
especially  for  the  accident  of  Arthur  Wing- 
ham's  sketch-book,  these  two  tourists  might 
even  have  dropped  for  ever  from  my  memory, 


38 


P.osalba 


like  all  the  other  tourists  who,  day  after  day 
mopped  their  foreheads  on  the  steep  arcaded 
path  up  the  shadowless  hill,  and  spoke  evil 
freely  of  the  Italian  sun,  and  stared  open- 
mouthed  at  the  Mass  of  St.  Gregory,  as  old 
Giuseppe,  that  authority  on  art.  directed  them 
to  do  in  the  Madonna  del  Monte, 


I 


y  after  day, 
:ep  arcaded 
spoke  evil 
;ared  open- 
;ory,  as  old 
reeled  them 


CHAPTER  III 


I    MAKE    A    DTjCOVERY 

A  DOMESTIC  critic— God  bless  him  !— 
who  is  peering  over  my  shoulder  as  I 
write,  and  attempting  to  interfere  with  the 
originality  of  my  work,  here  raises  an  objection. 
"  If  you  cannot  recollect  your  own  dialect,  my 
child,"  he  says,  "  how  comes  it  that  you  can  so 
perfectly  recollect  your  mother's  ?  " 

Now,  I  call  that  objection  silly.  It  shows  a 
man's  usual  lack  of  power  to  project  himself 
into  somebody  else's  situation.  0/  course  I 
can  recollect  my  mother's  dialect:  I  stood 
outside  it ;  I  could  observe  and  criticise  it. 
Even  at  that  age,  Mariana  and  I,  being  ir- 
reverent chits,  used  to  mimic  it  with  success. 
But  my  own  dialect  formed  part  of  myself ;  I 
was  not  aware  that  I  talked  cockney  ;  I  thought 
I  talked  English.  In  later  days  I  outgrew  my 
accent  by  slow  degrees  thrjugh   intercour^^e 

39 


■o  Rosalba 

with  more  refined  and  cultivated  speakers ;  but 

T  never  knew  1  was  outgrowing  f.  and  now  1 

:,no.even  reproduce  it  "lerably  by  an  effort 

of  memory.    Will  that  satisfy  you,  stupid  F 
"' 0„?  life  on   the  Monti   Berici-to  return 

,.„,„    this  digressio„-U    t  e   e    '.est    su^^^^^ 

^t^t^trgrth:' oidt's:.  chiidhoo'i 

We  had  very'good  times  'here  Mariana  and 
1-  very  good  times  on  the  whole    though 
1X7.1  trying.    We  attended  the  co- 
munal  school,  where  1   learned  to  read  and 
write    Italian.     Mariana,  for   her    part,    had 
Teamed  to  read  and  write  E"gl-h.n  London 
she  gave  herself  airs  on  the  strength  of  the 
upposed  superiority  of    the   l-f  -    ^„7, 
Board-School.  which  was  extremely     grand^ 
and  where  she  alone  had  gone,  to  the  one  we 
both  shared  on  the  Monte  Berico        Grand 
was  always  Mariana'spet  ep^heto  com-nd. 
tion  •  it  mirrored  an   ideal     I   picked  ii  up 
om  her  though  I  never  quite  assinj.lated  the 
Sng  ii  emb'odied.     Nowadays  Maruna^ 

'-'^'  ""t:^:  Xsht  i;vfs^tht 
outgrown  that  adjective  ^distinction 

..  smart  "—which    is,    alter    au,   a 
without  much  difference. 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


4' 


makers ;  but 
and  now  1 
jy  an  effort 
stupid  ? 
—to  return 
rliest    stage 
5.     Perhaps 
{  childhood, 
/lariana  and 
ole,   though 
;d  the  com- 
:o  read   and 
•    part,    had 
I  in  London ; 
;ngth  of  the 
rather    Lane 
ely  "grand," 
0  the  one  we 
0.     "  Grand  " 
of  commenda- 
picked  it  up 
ssimilated  the 
3,  Mariana  no 
id"  ;  she  has 
he  loves  them 
a  distinction 


By  Mariana's  aid  I  learned  to  read  English 
too,  though  I  could  never  quite  get  over  the 
topsy-turvy  insular  silliness  of  the  English 
mode  of  printing,  which  puts  ^'s  for  /'s,  and  rt's 
for  e's  in  the  weirdest  fashion.  However,  I 
conquered  this  erratic  orthography ;  I  man- 
aged to  master  the  strange  system  of  conven- 
tions by  which  many  letters  were  made  to  do 
duty  for  a  single  sound,  while  many  sounds 
were  attached,  en  revanche,  to  a  single  letter. 
The  conquest  of  written  English  thus  achieved 
put  me  in  a  position  to  read  all  the  litera- 
ture our  house  afforded.  Our  library  was 
not  large,  and  chance  had  selected  it ;  but, 
considering  our  position,  it  was  choice  and 
liberal.  We  had  the  Life  of  Giuseppe  Gari- 
baldi in  Italian,  and  the  Famous  Murders, 
and  two  startling  paper-covered  sensational 
novels  whose  honoured  names,  like  their  au- 
thors', have  escaped  me.  In  English  we  had 
The  Path  to  Paradise,  and  the  Life  of  St. 
Theresa,  and  the  C or nhill Magazine  for  June, 
1870,  and  a  fragmentary  copy  of  The  Cook's 
Companion. 

All  these  were  profoundly  interesting  in 
varied  ways — especially  the  last ;  it  opened  up 
such  vistas  of  unimagined  luxury.     But  there 


4« 


Rosalba 


were  three  other  books  on  the  kitchen  shelf 
which  I  much  preferred  to  them. 

One  hud  lost  its  cover,  thou^rh  it  retained  its 
title-page.     It  was  called    The  Thousand  and 
One  Nights  ;  A  New  Translation.     What  "  A 
New  Translation  "  might  mean  I  had  not  the 
slightest  idea ;   Giuseppe  thought  it   referred 
obscurely  to  the  body  of  some  saint  ;  but  I 
loved  that  book  ;  something  strange  and  foreign 
in  it,  as  of  another  world,    took  hold  of  my 
fancy.     I  had  no  conception  of  what  a  Caliph 
was,  though  I  gathered  from  the  text  that  he 
was  a  very  *'  grand  "   gentleman,  even  grander 
than  the   Sindaco ;  nor  had  I    the   dimmest 
glimmering  of  what  was  meant  by  a  sultana,  or 
a  mosque,  or  a  dervish,  or  a  dromedary.     But  I 
knew   that    Islam  was  the  right  faith  which 
everybody  in  that  world  ought  to  hold,  like  the 
Holy  Church  in  ours;   and  I  was  no  more 
shocked  by  the  heterodoxy  of  the  book  than  I 
was   shocked   in   fairy-tales  by  the  complete 
absence   of   any   mawkish    modern   morality. 
"  So  he  out  with  his  sword,  and  cut  off  the  old 
woman's  head,  and   then  went   on    with   his 
journey   singing."     In   that   tolerant   spirit— 
the   true  spirit  of   literature — I  accepted  the 

Thousand  and  One  Nights,  not  even  knowing 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


43 


Itchen  shelf 

t  retained  its 

hoHsand  and 

What  "  A 

had  not  the 
;  it  referred 
iaint ;  but  I 
e  and  foreign 

hold  of  my 
hat  a  Caliph 

text  that  he 
even  grander 
the   dimmest 

a  sultana,  or 
dary.     But  I 

faith  which 
hold,  like  the 
vas  no  more 
:  book  than  I 
the  complete 
irn  morality, 
ut  off  the  old 
on  with  his 
:rant   spirit — 

accepted  the 
;ven  knowing 


that  they  were  called  Arabian.  For  me,  they 
dropped  from  the  clouds  ;  I  think  I  suspected 
them  of  belonging  rath'ir  to  the  moon  or  the 
stars  than  to  any  mere  terrestrial  Araby  or 
Egypt. 

The  second  book  among  my  favourite  books 
was  also  in  English.  It  had  neither  cover  nor 
title-page,  so  I  did  not  know  who  wrote  it. 
Indeed,  I  fancy  I  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
point  of  understanding  that  books  were  written 
by  somebody ;  I  accepted  them  just  as  books 
— a  natural  product,  like  music  or  strawberries. 
This  second  book  was  quite  unlike  the  Thou- 
sand and  One  Nights;  it  did  not  tell  a  tale 
outright,  by  means  of  narrative,  but  made  a 
number  of  separate  speakers  say  each  his  own 
part,  so  that  by  putting  all  together  you  arrived 
at  last  at  a  comprehension  of  what  was  happen- 
ing. Still,  it  was  like  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights  in  this — that  it  did  not  tell  a  single 
story  alone,  but  several.  Each  of  these  stories 
had  a  name  of  its  own ;  those  I  liked  best 
were  called  A  Midsummer  NigMs  Dream, 
Romdo  and  Juliet,  As  You  Like  It,  and  The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  There  was  also  a 
lovely  tale  whose  name  was  The  Tempest  ; 
but,  unfortunately,  the  first  few  scenes  of  that 


44 


Rosalba 


were  torn  out,  like  the  title-page,  so  I  could 
never  make  out  how  Ferdinand  and  his  com- 
panions were  stranded  on  the  island.  Julius 
Casar  was  good,  though  I  thought  it  too 
much  like  the  Famous  Murders,  but  Hamlet 
was  sad  trash ;  while  all  the  Henrys  (except 
one  with  Falstaff  in  it)  were  too  dull  for  any- 
thing. Oddest  of  all,  though  the  book  was  in 
English,  almost  every  name  and  scene  was 
Italian  !  Rom^o  lived  at  a  place  called  Verona, 
whose  white  towers  we  could  make  out  in  fine 
weather  from  the  Madonna  del  Monte ;  while 
that  wicked  man,  Shylock,  was  a  Jew  in  Venice, 
and  Portia  came  from  Padua,  where  father 
used  to  go  from  time  to  time  to  confer  with 
the  Party.  It  shocked  me  afterwards  to  learn 
that  in  England  everybody  mispronounced 
Romeo's  name  as  Romeo. 

The  third  book,  which  I  loved  best  of  all, 
was  written  in  Italian — very  old  and  quaint 
and  grandiose  Italian.  It  also  had  lost  both 
cover  and  title  ;  but  it  was,  oh,  in  beautiful 
verse,  and  extremely  orthodox.  No  Islam 
there,  no  Koran,  but  the  Christian  epic.  It 
told  one  all  about  Heaven  and  Hell  and  Purga- 
tory, and — this  was  its  chief  charm — it  was 
composed  by  somebody  who  had  really  been 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


45 


;,  so  I  could 
and  his  com- 
and.  Julius 
)ught  it  too 
,  but  Hamlet 
nrys  (except 
dull  for  any- 
I  book  was  in 
d  scene  was 
ailed  Verona, 
ce  out  in  fine 
vionte;  while 
ew  in  Venice, 
where  father 
>  confer  with 
:ards  to  learn 
ispronounced 

d  best  of  all, 
1  and  quaint 
tiad  lost  both 
in  beautiful 
No  Islam 
tian  epic.  It 
2II  and  Purga- 
larm — it  was 
d  really  been 


there.  That  made  it  so  interesting ;  because, 
though  our  own  priest  knew  a  great  deal 
about  Heaven  and  Hell,  it  was  only  at  second 
hand,  from  books  and  pictures.  But  the 
signore  in  the  poetry-book — a  saturnine,  dis- 
dainful, bitter-tonr^ued  gentleman — had  actually 
seen  everyt  ling  1  i  described,  and  knew  precisely 
what  each  floor  of  Hell  was  made  of.  I  liked 
them  all,  and  read  them  all  eagerly.  Heaven 
I  thought  just  a  trifle  vague — a  somewhat 
shadowy  Paradiso.  Hell,  on  the  contrary,  had 
a  fiery  and  icy  materiality  about  it  that  was  quite 
convincing — a  most  vivid  Inferno.  Purgatory 
I  despised  as  fit  only  for  people  who  had  the 
courage  neither  of  their  sins  nor  their  virtues. 
I  hate  half-measures.  Give  me  a  harp  and 
crown,  or  to  wallow  with  Ugolino ! 

These  three  books  formed  the  basis  of  my 
education.  Only  long  after  did  I  learn  how 
fortunate  I  had  been  in  having  for  the  constant 
companions  of  my  childhood  Shakespeare, 
Dante,  and  the  nameless  but  immortal  Egypt- 
ians. I  carried  them  out  on  the  hillside,  and 
read  them  where  hedges  of  box  and  cypress 
breathed  their  resinous  breath  in  the  sunshine. 
By  their  aid  I  learned  to  converse  with  fairies 
and  goddesses. 


46 


Rosalba 


Mariana  was  not  so  fond  of  reading  as  I 
was.  Her  aims  were  more  social.  I  cared 
most  for  the  things  of  the  mind.  It  was 
Mariana's  idea  to  get  on  m  life  ;  she  wanted  to 
know  the  Cicolari  who  lived  lower  down  the 
hill,  and  were  distinguished  people  in  the  retail 
oil  trade,  with  seven*  len  acres  of  good  olive- 
terrare.  Ermite  Cicolari  waited  about  when 
she  passed  the  oil-press,  and  opened  his  saucer 
eyes  at  her.  Mariana  used  to  flit  by  as  though 
she  never  noticed  him. 

We  both  loved  the  Madonna  del  Monte. 
It  taught  us  much.  We  loved  the  sunlight 
that  lurked  in  the  hollows  of  the  soaring  dome ; 
the  great  guttering  candles  that  flared  before 
the  altar ;  the  ministrants  in  their  lace-edged 
garb  of  scarlet  and  white  ;  the  odorous  air, 
heavy  with  the  fumes  that  rose  in  blue  curls 
from  the  swinging  censers ;  the  monks  in  brown 
robes  with  ccwl  and  sandals;  the  organ  that 
pealed  to  the  echoing  roof :  all  was  rife  with 
mystery.  I  pity  English  children  who  have 
never  known  those  solemn  joys  of  the  sanctuary. 
They  colour  life  for  one. 

Mother  and  father  were  also  an  element  of 
education  to  us.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  I 
learnt   from  mother    the  first  rudiments  of 


t 

i 
e 

a 
a 
s 
f 
t 
s 
f. 
tl 

P 
C 

e 

I 

c 

it 

A 

V 
W 

o 

Ci 

a: 
S 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


47 


eading  as  I 
il.  I  cared 
id.  It  was 
le  wanted  to 
;r  down  the 
in  the  retail 
good  olive- 
about  when 
2d  his  saucer 
by  as  though 

del  Monte, 
the  sunlight 
)aring  dome ; 
flared  before 
ir  lace-edged 
odorous  air, 
in  blue  curls 
>nks  in  brown 
e  organ  that 
vas  rife  with 
;n  who  have 
:he  sanctuary. 

n  element  of 
imed  to  say  I 
•udiments  of 


the  literary  habit.  She  had  the  ordinary  rich 
vocabulary  of  the  Irish  peasant — a  trifle  florid, 
it  is  true,  and  not  always  quite  correct  in  the 
employment  of  words,  but  still  graphic,  profuse, 
and  varied.  She  knew,  I  think,  every  ncun 
and  adjective  in  the  English  language,  and 
she  strung  them  together  with  fatal  a.id  fluent 
familiarity.  In  verbs,  to  be  sure,  she  was  weak ; 
but  her  choice  of  epithets  left  nothing  to  desire 
save  applicability.  Mariana  laughed  at  her; 
for  myself,  I  secretly  admired  and  still  admire 
the  ease  and  smoothness  with  which  she  could 
pour  forth  her  torrent  floods  of  largiloquent 
Celtic  rhetoric.  Her  style  lacked  reserve ;  it 
erred,  if  at  all,  in  the  direction  of  exuberance. 
It  would  have  been  better  for  stern  and  judi- 
cious pruning.  But  what  it  wanted  in  terseness 
it  alm.ost  made  up  in  picturesque  confusion. 
And  't  is  beyond  a  doubt  that  vocabulary,  when 
all  is  said  and  done,  lies  at  the  root  of  literature. 
We  who  write  are  by  trade  phrasemongers. 

Of  father  we  saw  less.  He  was  an  idealist, 
was  father.  I  suppose  those  of  you  who  have 
only  met  the  waiter  at  Gatti's  in  his  professional 
capacity  as  v  aiter  at  Gatti's  would  hardly 
associate  idealism  with  the  restaurant  in  the 
Strand.     But  there  you  would  show  a  griev- 


48 


Rosalba 


ous  class-narrowness.     Idealism  is  a  product  of 
temperament,  not  a  result  of  vocation,  or  even 
of  association.     In  Italy's  need,  my  father  had 
returned  from  his  comfortable  berth  in  London 
to  join    Garibaldi's  volunteers   on  the   great 
revolutionist's   last  wild  expedition,  and   had 
been  wounded  in  the  leg  with  a  severe  wound, 
which  lamed   him  for  life  and  afforded   him 
thenceforward  the  ceaseless  joy  of  knowing 
that  he  had  shed  his  blood  (to  the  extent  of 
at  least  two  tablespoonfuls)  on  behalf  of  the 
Fatherland.     Now  that  he  had  retired  to  his 
three  acres,  he  busied  himself  mostly  with  the 
culture  of  the  vine  ;  but  he  was  also  an  import- 
ant personage  in  the  Party,  for  whose  sake  he 
paid  frequent  visits  to  Padua.     We   children 
knew  little  about  the  Party  ;  but  we  understood 
in   some  vague  way  that  it  was  profoundly 
necessary  for  the  salvation  of  the  Fatherland, 
and  that  without  it  Italy  would  be  given  over, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  to  some  wicked  people 
known  as  the  borghesia  or  bourgeoisie.     I  have 
since  inferred  that  father  was  a  socialist ;  but 
as  we  lived  in  daily  fear  of  the  vengeance  of 
the  borghesi,  we  never  used  that  word  ourselves 
on  the  Monti  Berici ;  the  sole  phrase  we  knew 
was  that  of  "  the  Party." 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


49 


a  product  of 
tion,  or  even 
ly  father  had 
th  in  London 
)n  the  great 
on,  and   had 
evere  wound, 
ifforded   him 
of  knowing 
the  extent  of 
behalf  of  the 
retired  to  his 
3stly  with  the 
Iso  an  import- 
*rhose  sake  he 
We  children 
^e  understood 
IS  profoundly 
e  Fatherland, 
je  given  over, 
kricked  people 
'oisie.     I  have 
socialist ;  but 
vengeance  of 
vord  ourselves 
irase  we  knew 


Personally,  a  gentler  revolutionist  than  my 
father  I  never  saw.     He  stabbed  with  diffi- 
culty, and  g.Mllotined  his  opponents  in  dumb 
show  only.     He  would  stop  short  in  his  fiercest 
denunciation  of  kings,  priests,  and  the  black 
hearts  of  capitalists,  to  lay  one  hand  tenderly 
on  my  curly  head,  and  say  with  his  expansive 
smile,  "  There,  run  away,  Rosalba  mia  !    Run 
away,  my  little  one!     These  serious  matters 
are  not  for  such  as  thee.     Dreamer  of  dreams, 
what  dost  thou  know  of  politics  ?    Non  sono 
per  te!     Go,  pluck  thyself  a  bunch  of  the  ripe 
black  grapes,  the  biggest  thou  canst  find,  on 
the  sunny  side  of  the  pergola,  and  set  thyself 
down  in  the  mulberry  shade  to  eat  them,  where 
the  mother  cannot  see  thee."     For  mother  ob- 
jected to  our  eating  grapes  (except  at  vintage 
time)  on  the  two  absurd  grounds  that  grapes 
"were  not  for  the  likes  of  us,"  and  that  we  al- 
ways got  ill  from  swallowing  the  grape-stones. 
That  was  how  our  life  wagged  on  the  Monti 
Berici.     The  days  were  all  alike,  save  for  the 
intrusive  tourist.     Part  of  every  day,  Mariana 
and  I  tramped  off  to  the  communal  school  and 
were  genuine  Italians.      Part  of  the  day  we 
played  around  the  house,  or  watched  iox  fores- 
tieri  on  the  Al  Cristo  platform.     It  was  a  con- 


50 


Rosalba 


stant  joy  to   us  to   play  our  little  game  of 
surprise  with  the  forestieri.      We   played  it 
quite   intentionally,  talking   Italian    together 
before  them  for  some  minutes,  till  they  had 
committed  themselves  to  a  number  of  frank 
remarks,  and  then  covering  them  with  confu- 
sion by  suddenly  bursting  into  an  English  ex- 
clamation.    We  could  never  understand  why 
our  change  of  tongue  took  them  so  by  sur- 
prise ;    but  we  played  upon  the  peculiarity^ 
To  us,  it  seemed  quite  natural  to  be  English 
children  in  Italy.     But  the  tourists  always  ex- 
pressed the  same   unmitigated  astonishment 
when  we  revealed  our  Englishry  :  and  as  they 
generally  ended  by  giving  Mariana  six  sous  at 
least,  as  some  slight  solatium  for  her  wounded 
feelings,  she  was  fond  of  exciting  me  to  take 
part  in  this  amusing  game  with  her. 

The  only  serious  drawback  to  our  happiness 
was  mother. 

I  can  hardly  remember  when  I  first  began  to 
find  out  about  mother. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  one  day  in  vintage 
time,  about  a  year  after  the  visit  of  the  artist 
who  sketched  me. 

We  had  great  fun  at  vintage,— greater  fun 


I 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


5' 


tie   game  of 
^e   played  it 
ian    together 
till  they  had 
iber  of   frank 
n  with  confu- 
ti  English  ex- 
derstand  why 
m  so  by  sur- 
e  peculiarity, 
to  be  English 
sts  always  ex- 
astonishment 
r  :  and  as  they 
ina  six  sous  at 
r  her  wounded 
ng  me  to  take 
her. 
our  happiness 


I  first  began  to 

I  day  in  vintage 
sit  of  the  artist 

e, — greater  fun 


even  than  feeding  the  silkworms.  All  the 
boys  and  girls  at  the  communal  school  had 
holidays  for  a  week,  to  help  pick  grapes  and 
assist  in  the  pressing.  Not,  of  course,  all  to- 
gether ;  each  family  gathered  its  own  grapes 
separately,  and  watched  the  rows  with  jealous 
care  lest  the  children  of  the  next  plot  should 
encroach  and  steal ;  for  there  is  no  identifying 
stolen  grapes  once  they  reach  the  baskets. 
As  we  went  to  and  fro,  for  some  weeks  before, 
indeed,  on  our  way  to  school,  we  had  to  hold 
our  hands  clasped  above  our  heads  while  we 
passed  through  the  vmeyards,  that  our  neigh- 
bours might  see  we  were  duly  keeping  them 
from  picking  and  stealing.  To  us  little  ones, 
however,  the  vintage,  when  at  last  it  arrived, 
was  a  real  fes.ival.  We  loved  passing  down 
through  X\i& pergolas,  where  the  purple  bunches 
hung  multitudinous  overhead,  and  snipping 
them  off  with  our  scissors,  and  tossing  them 
with  careless  glee  into  the  creels.  Authorised 
destructiveness  rejoices  everyone.  Besides, 
we  might  then  eat  as  many  as  we  liked  by  the 
way,  even  mother  yielding  on  that  point,  hav- 
ing satisfied  herself  early  that  "childer  will 
be  childer ;  an'  shure  the  on'y  way  to  reshtrain 
iheir  appetites  is  to  give  free  play  to  them." 


52 


Rosalba 


This  particular  day  was  a  hot  one.  I  admit 
even   for   Italy.      Mother   from  the  first  had 
been   cross   and   irritable.      She   hated   heat. 
"What  would  be   afther   making  yer  fader 
come   and   pitch  his  tint   in   this   outlandish 
coimthrv,  .mong  a  barbarious  pack  of  haythen 
Italians,  barrin  th.ir  bein'  good  Cahthohcs  on 
Sundays  and  fistivals,  bates  iwerything     she 
used  to  say.     "  An' thin,  the  cloimate  !     Why, 
in  the  splindid  romantic  scaynery  of  the  Kerry 
mountain.,  wid  their  bays  and  their  headlands 
all  conta^ioui  to  the  cool  refreshing  breeze  o 
the  moighty  ocean,  isn't  the  cloimate  so  moild 
and   ayquable  that  the   evergreen    arbyootus 
trees  will  flourish,  the  winter  t'rough,  on  the 
hoights  of  the  precipitous  rocky  promontories; 
an  yet  in  the  summer 't  is  so  cool  an'  agrayable 
that  ye  can  sit  in  the  sunshine  on  the  longest 
day  an'  sorra  a  freckle  will  the  blessed  sun  of 
ould  Oireland  print  on  the  most  delicate  com- 
plexion.   Whoile,  here,  for  all  they  "U  talk  about 
their  cloudless  Italian  skies,  is  n't  it  frozen  in 
winter  ye  are,  wid  nothing  to  warrum  ye  oarrin 
a  fayble  little  scaldeeno.  an'  burnt  up  intoirely 
in  summer,  wid  divvil  wan  breeze  to  cool  yer 
brow  fron.  the  hate  of  the  sayson  ?  Och  !  t  is  the 
miserable  cloimate  I  'd  i> -  afther  callm-  u  at  all, 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


53 


one,  I  admit, 
the  first  had 

hated   heat, 
ig  yer  fader 
is   outlandish 
:k  of  haythen 
Cahtholics  on 
jrything,"  she 
mate !     Why, 
J  of  the  Kerry 
leir  headlands 
ling  breeze  of 
mate  so  moild 
ien    arbyootus 
'rough,  on  the 
promontories ; 
il  an'  agrayable 
on  the  longest 

blessed  sun  of 
it  delicate  com- 
tey  11  talk  about 
n't  it  frozen  in 
irrum  ye  oarrin' 
rnt  up  intoirely 
eze  to  cool  yer 
1?  Och! 'tis  the 
r  callin'^  i^  at  all, 


at  all."  And  she  mopped  her  face  with 
her  apron  in  pantomimic  disapprobation  of 
universal  Italy. 

All  through  the  day  Mariana  and  I  went  on 
picking  our  grapes  and  tossing  them  into  the 
baskets — except,  of  course,  at  siesta  time  ;  and 
all  through  the  day  I  noticed  that  as  time 
went  on  mother  seemed  to  jjfrow  crosser  and 
crosser.  As  for  father,  the  crosser  she  got, 
and  the  oftener  she  called  me  "Ye  idle  little 
divvil  ! "  the  more  he  seemed  to  lay  his  hand 
on  my  head  and  fondle  me.  "  There,  therf;, 
my  dreamer,  my  little  one,"  he  whispered  to 
me  in  Italian,  drawing  me  off  towards  his 
basket,  away  from  mother's  ;  "  come  and  pick 
with  me.  Let  the  madre  have  that  row  ;  you 
and  I  will  take  this  one."  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  touch  even  more  caressing  than 
usual.  He  seemed  to  be  protecting  me  from 
some  unknown  evil. 

I  picked  with  him  for  a  while,  laughing  and 
talking  and  cutting  my  antic  little  capers  ■^s 
usual — "That  child's  soul  is  in  her  feet!"  m.y 
father  used  to  say  of  me  often — then  some- 
thing perverse  drew  me  back  once  more  to- 
wards mother.  I  noticed  that  Mariana  stood 
away  from  her  with  caution,  and  that  even 


54 


Rosalba 


when  mother  called  she  took  care  to  keep  well 
out  of  cuffing  distance.      1  also  noticed  that 
from  time  to  time  mother  dropped  off,  for  a 
short  time,  towards  the  house  and  the  village, 
and  that   after   each    relaxation   her   temper 
became    f^rst    temporarily  better,   and    then 
worse  again  than  ever.     Now,  I  have  always 
been  a  person  of  a  philosophically  inquirmg 
temperament ;  and  this  unexplained  phenome- 
non roused  my  curiosity.     Investigation  is  the 
mainspring  of    science.       1    sidled   off    from 
father,  who  happened  to  be  looking  the  other 
way,  and  went  over  with  my  grapes  to  mother's 
basket.     /  "  1  put  them  in,  working  with  child- 
ish eagerness,  I  chanced  to  give  mother  a  slight 
accidental  push.     She  pushed  back  in  return 
to  preserve  her  balance.      Between  us,  some- 
how, we  upset  the  pannier. 

"  What  for  did  ye  do  that,  ye  clumsy  little 
baste?"  mv  mother  cried,  seizing  me.  Next 
instant  I  was  aware  of  a  perfect  rain  of  cuffs 
on  my  head  and  ears. 

I  tried  to  slip  from  her  grasp  with  one  of 
my  quick,  sidelong,  snake-like  movements.  For 
a  second  I  succeeded.  "  It  was  more  your 
fault  than  mine,"  I  cried,  facing  her,  with  a 
fierce  sense  of  burning  indignation.      "  It  was 


I  Make  a  Discovery 


55 


to  keep  well 
noticed  that 
)ed  off,  for  a 
J  the  village, 
her   temper 
r,   and    then 
have  always 
illy  inquiring 
led  phenome- 
igation  is  the 
led   ofi    from 
ing  the  other 
es  to  mother's 
ng  with  child- 
lother  a  slight 
ack  in  return 
^een  us,  some- 

e  clumsy  little 
ig  me.  Next 
t  rain  of  cuffs 

ip  with  one  of 
jvements.  For 
ras  more  your 
ig  her,  with  a 
:ion.      "  It  was 


I 


you  that  upset  it.  If  you  had  n't  been  so  awk- 
ward  " 

She  caught  at  me  again,  and  ran  her  strong 
hand  through  my  hair.  *'  Is  it  answering  me 
back  ye  'd  be,  ye  black-hearted  little  Italian 
divvil?"  she  cried,  bringing  her  hand  down 
on  my  ears.  Every  nerve  in  my  body  tingled 
with  pain  as  she  struck  at  me  savagely. 

My  father  rushed  up  in  his  excitable  south- 
ern way. 

"  Drop  her!"  he  shouted  aloud  in  English. 
"  Drop  her,  I  say !  How  dare  you  treat  my 
child  so  ?  You  shall  not  lay  a  hand  upon  her 
head,  ze  poor  darling  ! "  And  he  caught  me 
up  in  his  arms  and  kissed  me. 

Mother  stood  off  a  little  and  glared  at  him. 
Her  face  was  distorted.  From  that  day  forth 
I  was  dimly  aware  that  there  was  something 
or  other  uncanny  which  I  did  n't  quite  under- 
stand about  mother. 

"  Why  did  you  go  near  her  when  she  was 
like  that  ?  "  Mariana  asked  me  later.  Mariana 
was  older  and  worldly-wiser  than  I  was. 

"  Like  what  ?"  I  answered  in  my  innocence. 

Mariana  paused  and  pondered,  perusing  her 
shoes.      She  sucked  her   thumb   reflectively, 


56 


Rosalba 


"Well,  didn't  you  see  her  eyes  were  very 
small?"  she  suggested  at  last,  in  that  silvery- 
liquid  voice  of  hers. 

I  remembered  then  that  they  did  look  small, 
as  indeed  1  had  often  observed  them  before ; 
and  I  said  so,  wondering. 

Mariana  nodded.  "  Whenever  you  see  her 
eyes  growing  small  like  that,"  she  remarked  m 
a  tone  of  candid  advice,  "  just  keep  out  of  her 
way.     You  '11  find  it 's  better." 


}  were  very 
that  silvery- 

d  look  small, 
hem  before; 

r  you  see  her 
;  remarked  in 
ep  out  of  her 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    REVOLTING    DAUGHTER 

AFTER  that,  I  often  noticed  that  mother 
had  "  small  eyes,"  as  Mariana  called  it ; 
also  that  the  symptom  recurred  at  shorter  and 
shorter  intervals.  Mariana  and  father  talked 
about  it  alone  at  times,  as  I  judged  ;  but  they 
talked  so  low,  and  in  such  enigmatical  words, 
that  I  could  never  quite  make  out  what  it  was 
they  were  debating.  Childhood  is  surrounded 
by  these  tantalising  mysteries.  I  only  knew 
that  Mariana,  who  was  a  masterful  body,  said 
(stamping  her  little  foot)  it  ought  to  be  put  a 
stop  to ;  and  that  father,  who  was  an  easy-go- 
ing man  (twirling  the  ends  of  his  black  mous- 
tache with  irresolute  thumb  and  finger),  entirely 
agreed  with  her,  but  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  did  nothing. 

I  did  something.     It  was  my  nature  to  act. 
Even  as  a  child,  I   had  a  strange  congenital 

57 


58 


Rosalba 


habit  of  decision.  And  I  acted  now.  "A 
strong  will,"  the  man  in  brown  had  said  ;  "  but 
capricious."  It  came  about  at  last,  I  think, 
through  something  I  read  in  what  I  used  to 
call  the  Talk-Book— the  book  which  told  its 
stories  not  by  means  of  a  direct  narrative,  but 
by  speeches  which  it  put  into  people's  mouths, 
allowing  the  characters  to  develop  the  situa- 
tions. 

I  had  read  a  story  in  this  Talk-Book  called 
As  You  Like  It.  It  was  a  lovely  story,  all 
about  the  adver  ares  of  two  young  ladies,  real 
signorine  of  the  highest  rank,  who  fled  forth 
from  their  castle  into  a  pathless  forest  all  alone 
by  themselves,  and  there  went  in  search  of  the 
most  romantic  episodes.  I  admired  those 
signorine.  They  had  such  pluck,  such  initia- 
tive !  And  they  hated  injustice !  So  did  I. 
The  sense  of  wrong  rankled  ever  in  my  bosom. 
I  did  not  much  mind  when  father  punished  me  ; 
for  he  punished  justly ;  or  if,  in  his  hot  Italian 
way,  he  sometimes  struck  us  in  sudden  temper, 
he  made  up  for  it  later  on  by  acknowledging 
his  fault  and  asking  our  forgiveness.  That 
touched  riy  heart.  But  when  mother  struck 
me  for  no  fault  committed,  I  was  always  angry  ; 
^nd  I  often  thought  I  should  love  to  set  out, 


A  Revolting  Daughter 


50 


I  now.  "A 
dsaid;  "but 
last,  I  think, 
at  I  used  to 
hich  told  its 
larrative,  but 
pie's  months, 
op  the  situa- 

;-Book  called 
ely  story,  all 
ig  ladies,  real 
ho  fled  forth 
)rest  all  alone 
search  of  the 
Imired  those 
:,  such  initia- 
!  So  did  I. 
in  my  bosom, 
punished  me ; 
lis  hot  Italian 
idden  temper, 
:knowledging 
iness.  That 
nother  struck 
ilways  angry ; 
^e  to  set  outj 


like  Rosalind  and  Celia,  on  a  voyage  of  ex- 
ploration into  the  World  beyond  Vicenza. 

That  World  beyond  Vicenza  beckoned  me 
from  afar  with  phantom  fingers.  I  looked  out 
on  it  often  at  noon  or  twilight  from  the  Ma- 
donna del  Monte.  The  lay  of  the  land  spoke 
to  me.  The  wide  grey  plain  that  smouldered 
in  the  sunshine ;  the  gleaming  white  towns 
that  lay  sprinkled  like  bright  specks  over  its 
misty  surface,  as  daisies  lie  sprinkled  on  a  close- 
cropped  lawn  ;  the  jagged  peaks  of  the  Alps, 
glowing  rosy  in  the  sunset  from  the  steps  of 
the  great  church,  all  called  to  me — "Come, 
come  !  We  are  full  of  romance !  We  are  full 
of  mystery  ! "  From  that  coign  of  vantage  my 
eye  beheld  the  kingdoms  of  tie  earth  and  all 
their  glory 

The  lowland  plain  stretches  like  a  sea. 
Northward,  the  Alps  form  its  shore  ;  south- 
ward, the  Apennines.  The  Euganean  hills — 
Shelley's  Euganeans,  though  as  yet  I  knew 
not  that  there  was  a  Shelley — stand  up  like 
islands  in  the  middle  distance.  All  is  mystic 
and  dim.  The  eye  ranges  so  far  that  land 
melts  into  cloud,  and  one  sees  no  horizon. 

In  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  every- 
body set  forth  on  every  page  in  search  of  ad- 


6o 


Rosalba 


ventures,  quite  as   a  matter  of  course,  and 
embraced  the   first    chance   that   Allah   sent 
them.     I  longed  to   imitate   those   Sindbads 
and  Aladdins.     I  was  tired  of  the  Monti  Berici, 
and  the  vines,  and  the  tourists ;   tired  of  old 
Giuseppe  and  his   three-days-old   beard,  that 
seemed  never  older,  yet  never  clean-shaven ; 
tired  of  the  droning  sermons  preached  every 
Sunday  afternoon,  by  the  fat-faced  priest  with 
the  droop  in  his  cheeks,  to  us  children  at  the 
catechising;  tired  above  all  of  that  rankling 
sense  of  injustice  suffered  at  the  hands  of  my 
mother.     Like  Cassim  in  the  cave,  I  fumed 
after  freedom. 

It  was  written  that  I  should  fare  forth.  But 
what  put  the  last  touch  to  my  romantic  long- 
ing for  romance  was  an  event  that  occurred 
when  father  went  one  day  to  Padua,  on  the 
service  of  the  Party. 

Before  he  left  the  house  he  and  Mariana 
held  a  confidential  consultation  together.  As 
well  as  I  can  guess,  I  must  have  been  then 
about  twelve  years  old,  and  Mariana  fourteen  ; 
which  last,  for  an  Italian  girl,  may  count  as 
about  equal  to  eighteen  in  England.  I  can 
hear  them  to  this  day  conspiring  in  secret  un- 
der the  trellis  of  vines  by  the  front  doorway. 


A  Revolting  Daughter 


6i 


ourse,  and 
Allah   sent 
:   Sindbads 
onti  Berici, 
ired  of  old 
beard,  that 
2an-shaven ; 
iched  every 
priest  with 
dren  at  the 
lat  rankling 
lands  of  my 
re,  I  fumed 

forth.  But 
iiantic  long- 
lat  occurred 
idua,  on  the 

md  Mariana 
gether.  As 
e  been  then 
na  fourteen ; 
lay  count  as 
land.  I  can 
in  secret  un- 
Dnt  doorway. 


I 


The  importance  of  the  outcome  has  fixed  the 
very  words  they  used  in  my  memory. 

Mariana  said  :  "  Don't  leave  her  a  soldo. 
Give  the  money  for  food  to  me  instead.  I  can 
buy  bread  and  meat.  Then  she  will  not  be 
able  to  get  it." 

My  father  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
stroked  his  black  moustache  ineffectually.  After 
a  moment's  hesitation,  he  twitched  his  sheep- 
skin cloak  on  one  side,  as  he  always  did  when 
in  doubt  or  perplexity.  He  would  not  for 
worlds  have  gone  to  Padua  without  that  sheep- 
skin cloak.  Not  only  was  it  the  badge  of  his 
Party,  a  protest  against  the  excessive  luxury 
of  the  black-coated  borghesia,  but  it  was  also  his 
social  uniform  as  a  landed  proprietor.  You 
could  hardly  have  imagined,  if  you  saw  him 
trudging  along  a  powdery-white  Italian  road 
with  his  high-collared  mule  and  his  shaggy 
sheepskin,  that  he  was  the  same  person  as  that 
very  grand  gentleman  who  wore  an  immaculate 
evening  suit,  relieved  by  a  false  shirt-front  and 
white  tie,  at  Gatti's  in  London. 

"  She  will  get  it  all  the  same,"  he  murmured 
dubiously.  "  The  type  !  the  type  !  'T  is  my 
experience,  Mariana,  that  when  they  want  it, 
they  manage  to  get  it," 


63 


Rosalba 


"  That  is  true,"  Mariana  answered— and  I 
can  hear  the  very  ring  of  her  silvery  voice  as 
she  uttered  with  conviction  those  words,  "^ 
^cro! "— "  but,  at   least,  you  and  I  will  have 
cleared   our   consciences.       Is   it   not   always 
somewhat  to  have  cleared  one's  conscience  ? " 
My  father  pulled  the  leather  purse  from  his 
pocket  slowly,  and  counted  out  some  torn  and 
dirty  lira  notes,  one  by  one,  into  Mariana's 
hands.     Mariana's  little  fist  closed  over  them 
lovingly.     She  had  never  held  so  much  money 
in  her  grasp  before,  and  I  am  sure  she  felt  the 
importance  of  the  position.     A  gasp  of  her 
soft  throat  and  a  sparkle  in  her  bright  eyes 
showed  her  sense  of  the  dignity  of  the  moment. 
She  looked  so  handsome  as  she  stood  thf  re, 
holding  her  breath,  that   I  wondered  in  my 
heart  how  the  man  in  brown  could  ever  have 
said  of  her  :  "  Nothing  distinctive !     Might  be 
Seven  Dials!"     I  had  yet  to  learn  that  there 
is  beauty  and  beauty ;  for  Mariana's  beauty, 
though  perfect  in  its  kind,  was  one  that  you 
may  find  by  the  dozen  any  day  in  Italy. 

I  listened  to  their  talk,  and  felt  like  a  con- 
spirator. I  thought  that  must  be  just  how 
father  felt  when  he  sat  in  conclaves  of  the 
Party  at  Padua,  denouncing  the  borghesu 


red — and  I 

;ry  voice  as 
words,  ''E 
I  will  have 
not  always 
Qnscience  ?  " 
rse  from  his 
me  torn  and 

0  Mariana's 

1  over  them 
nuch  money 
;  she  felt  the 
gasp  of  her 

bright  eyes 
the  moment, 
stood  thf  re, 
dered  in  my 
id  ever  have 

!  Might  be 
rn  that  there 
ina's  beauty, 
one  that  you 

Italy. 
;lt  like  a  con- 
be  just  how 
:laves  of  the 
horghesu 


A  Revolting  Daughter  63 

He  turned  and  laid  his  gentle  bronzed  hand . 
on  my  head.     "  You  will  say  nothing  of  this  to 
her,  piccola  mia  ?  "  he  asked  with  an  inquiring 
accent. 

The  question  insulted  me  !  I,  a  conspirator, 
and  a  conspirator's  daughter !  To  betray  the 
secret  of  the  brotherhood  tc  the  very  authority 
against  whom  it  was  aimed!  "I  would  die 
first ! "  I  answered,  looking  back  at  him  stead- 
fastly.   "  Not  racks  would  wring  it  from  me  ! " 

Nobody  mentioned  my  mother's  name 
throughout.  But  my  father  caught  my  eye, 
and  saw  that  I  understood.  He  stooped  down 
and  kissed  me.  There  was  always  something 
pathetic  about  my  father.  I  burst  into  tears. 
I  scarce  knew  myself  at  the  moment  why  I 
did  so. 

But  when  once  he  had  really  gone  beyond 
the  dark  little  ilex-grove,  and  was  winding  his 
way  down  the  hillpath  towards  Vicenza— a 
dignified  peasant-figure  in  his  crimson  sash  and 
loose  mantle  of  sheepskin,— I  climbed  the 
housetop,  scrambling  up  it  like  a  monkey,  and 
waved  my  white  handkerchief  to  him  a  dozen 
times  over,  and  cried  aloud  again  and  again : 
"Good-bye,  little  father!  Addw,  babbino f 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  darling ! " 


64 


Rosalba 


It  was  one  of  those  prophetic  things  that 
one  does  half  unconsciously,  and  of  which  the 
full  meaning  only  comes  to  one  by  the  light 
of  what  follows. 

Father  was  to  be  away  for  four  or  five  days, 
for  the  Party  was  agitated  by  important  pro- 
posals at  Padua.     "  Anti-dynastic  proposals," 
my  papa  remarked,  dropping  his  voice,  with 
the   preternatural   seriousness  of  the   Italian 
radical ;  and   though  I  had   n6   notion  what 
manner  of  wild  beast  an  anti-dynastic  proposal 
might  be,  I  felt  sure  it  was  something  of  the 
gravest  import,  like  the  revolution  that  drove 
those  fabulous  ogres,  the  Austrians.  out  of  Italy. 
So  we  did  not  expect  to  see  him  back  for 
about  a  week,  during  which  time  I  felt  sure  he 
would  have  performed  prodigies  of  valour,  and 
reduced  the  wicked  borghesi  with  his  own  right 
hand  to  much  the  same  condition  that  Henry  V. 
in  the  Talk-Book  reduced  the  Frenchmen. 

For  the  first  two  or  three  days  of  his  absence, 
relations  between  mother  and  Mariana  were  a 
trifle  strained.  No  sooner  was  father's  back 
turned,  indeed,  on  his  way  to  scatter  the  hordes 
of  the  borghesia,  than  mother  began  to  perceive 
the  compact  we  conspirators  had  entered  into. 
Just  at  first  she  turned  huffy;  but  after  the 


I 


A  Revolting  Daughter 


65 


things  that 
)f  which  the 
by  the  light 

or  five  days, 
portant  pro- 
proposals," 
voice,  with 
the   Italian 
notion  what 
Stic  proposal 
:thing  of  the 
»n  that  drove 
;,  out  of  Italy, 
im  back  for 
I  felt  sure  he 
)f  valour,  and 
his  own  right 
hat  Henry  V. 
enchmen. 
)f  his  absence, 
ariana  were  a 
father's  back 
ter  the  hordes 
an  to  perceive 
I  entered  into, 
but  after  the 


I 


second  day  or  so,  while  avoiding  Mariana's 
cold  gaze,  she  showed  a  strange  disposition  to 
make  up  to  me.  She  called  me  "  Honey  "  and 
"  Me  darlint "  till  I  began  to  wonder  at  what 
end  she  could  be  aiming.  Mother  was  always 
most  affectionate  when  she  wanted  something 
from  us.  On  the  third  day,  after  siesta  time, 
she  straggled  up  the  arcaded  path  as  far  as  Al 
Cristo.  She  had  the  shuffling  gait  of  her 
countrywomen  in  England.  It  was  early 
autumn,  the  season  when  grapes  and  love- 
apples  turn  colour,  and  when  the  annual  crop 
of  tourists  is  expected  to  ripen  at  Madonna 
del  Monte.  Already  old  Giuseppe  began  to 
loiter  officiously  on  the  chequer-work  pavement 
by  the  outer  steps,  rubbing  his  wrinkled  brown 
hands  in  pleased  anticipation  of  the  coming 
soldi-harvest. 

I  was  playing  alone  on  the  platform  just  be- 
low the  cross  that  boars  the  effigy  of  the  dead 
Signore.  Mother  sidled  up  to  me  with  an  in- 
sinuating smile.  "Shure  it's  two  English 
gintlemen  that's  advancing  up  the  road,"  she 
muttered  in  a  voice  of  disguised  suggestion. 

I  looked  up  and  saw  them — two  middle- 
aged  tourists  of  the  uninteresting  sort.  Both 
stout ;  both  perspiring ;  both  taking  off  their 


66 


Rosalba 


crush  hats  and  mopping  their  foreheads. 
Nothing  new  in  all  that !  They  held  in  their 
hands  the  regulation  red  books,  and  looked  on- 
ward fixedly,  like  all  their  tribe,  towan's 
the  Mac  onna  del  Monte 

1  his  Kind  did  not  interest  me.  I  went  on 
wiih  he  construction  of  Prospero's  island,  in 
which  \  'md  just  engineered  a  neat  and  com- 
modious n.orass  for  the  reception  of  Trinculo 
and  his  drunken  companions.  I  Hooded  it  by 
diverting  the  water  from  the  drain  at  the  road- 
side. Make-believe  was  always  more  to  me 
than  reality. 

Presently  my  mother  spoke  again,  in  her 
blandest  accents:  *' It 's  wanting  a  guide  the 
gintlemen  will  be,  maybe." 

I  took  no  notice  once  more.  If  mother  had 
not  been  there,  of  course  I  should  have  left 
Miranda  (represented  by  a  forked  acacia-twig, 
with  two  branches  for  legs  and  a  rose-hip  for 
head)  to  perish  Ophelia-like  in  the  sodden 
morass,  while  I  rushed  off  to  follow  the 
strangers  round  the  church.  But  I  did  n't 
quite  like  the  tone  in  which  mother  made  the 
suggestion.     It  seemed  to  me  to  cloak  ulterior 

motives.  / 

"  Go  up  an'  spake  to  them,  darlint,"  mother 


I 


A  Rcvolth  yf 


Daughter 


67 


fore'' cads, 
leld  in  their 
\  looked  on- 
be,   to  ware!  s 

I  went  on 
)'s  island,  in 
:at  and  com- 
of  Trinculo 
looded  it  by 

at  the  road- 
more  to  me 

gain,  in  her 
a  guide  the 

mother  had 
Lild  have  left 
I  acacia-twig, 
rose-hip  for 
the  sodden 
>  follow  the 
lut  I  didn't 
ler  made  the 
:loak  ulterior 

rlint,"  mother 


broke  out  at  last,  seeing  I  cont  .aed  stolidly 
to  anufacturc  my  Ferdinand  from  a  short 
piece  of  stick  and  an  unripe  grape. 

I  assert.  1  y.ij  ego,  "I  don't  want  to  speak 
to  them,"  I  answered,  without  taking  my  eyes 
from  a  iy  home-made  puppets. 

She  drew  nearer  to  me.  "  Run,  quick, 
there 's  a  jool,  an'  ask  them  to  give  ye  half  a 
lira,"  she  whispered  low,  pushing  me  forward. 
"  If  ye  bring  me  half  a  lira  ye  may  ate  ivvery 
grape  ye '11  be  wanting  at  all,  at  all,  this 
ayvening." 

I  looked  up  at  her  angrily.  The  self-respect 
of  the  Lupari  was  offended  in  my  person.  I 
did  not  mind  conducting  a  tourist  to  the  door 
of  the  Rotonda  in  a  friendly  way,  with  a  hop, 
a  skip,  and  a  jump  ;  nor  did  I  object  to  ac- 
cepting a  soldo  or  two  at  the  end  of  the  visit, 
if  he  chose  to  offer  them  ;  but  this  was  a  plain 
hint  of  deliberate  mendicancy.  It  was  what 
the  Moro  children  did,  who  lived  down  the 
road — they  had  never  been  in  England,  and 
their  father  was  a  shepherd.  As  mother  said 
herself,  we  moved  in  different  circles. 

"  I  am  not  a  beggar,"  I  answered  proudly. 

She  took  my  arm  in  her  hand,  with  a  gentle 
pressure  as  yet,  though  there  was  a  threat  in 


68 


Rosalba 


her  touch.  "  There,  now,  quick,  me  darlint, 
or  ye  '11  be  too  late  intoirely,"  she  murmured 
in  my  ear.  "  Shure,  it 's  meself,  Rosall)a,  that 's 
in  want  of  the  money." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ask  for  it  yourself  ?  " 
I  retorted  coldly. 

She  gazed  down  on  me  and  smiled.  "  An' 
is  it  to  an  ould  woman  like  me  they  'd  be  giv- 
ing it?"  she  answered  with  persuasiveness, 
though  an  undercurrent  of  asperity  ran 
through  her  coaxing.  "  Is  n't  it  the  graceful 
little  dancer  like  yerself  that'll  be  spiriting 
the  nimble  silver  out  of  the  pockets  of  the 
quality  as  aisy  as  asking  it?  Shure,  they 
could  n't  resist  ye,  me  fairy,  when  ye  'd  turn 
yer  big  moons  of  eyes  up  at  them." 

I  went  on  with  my  play  without  answering 

a  word. 

"  Why  would  n't  ye  be  going,  bad  cess  to 
ye  ?  "  she  inquired  at  last,  after  a  long  pause. 

I  continued  the  arrangement  of  Ferdinand's 
arms  by  running  a  cross-piece  through  the 
middle  of  his  body,  and  answered  without 
raising  my  head,  "  Because  I  know  what  you 
want  it  for." 

She  did  not  curse  me.  She  did  not  rush  at 
me  and  seize  me  in  her  grasp,  as  I  expected. 


me  darlint, 
le  murmured 
Dsallia,  that 's 

it  yourself  ?  " 

niled.     "  An' 

ley  'd  be  giv- 

;rsuasiveness, 

asperity    ran 

the  graceful 

be   spiriting 

)ckets  of  the 

Shure,   they 

len  ye  VI  turn 

(I. 

)ut  answering 

r,  bad  cess  to 
a  long  pause. 
)f  Ferdinand's 
through  the 
^ered  without 
low  what  you 

id  not  rush  at 
as  I  expected. 


A  Revolting  Daughter 


6-. 


She  let  her  hand  tighten  almost  imperceptibly 
on  my  arm,  and  waited  without  one  word  till 
the  two  perspiring  middle-aged  tourists  had 
vanished  into  the  church,  and  were  lost  to  our 
vision.  Then  she  turned  on  me  in  her  fury. 
Never  before  had  she  beaten  me  so  fiercely  or 
so  mercilessly.  She  was  too  angry  for  words. 
She  did  not  speak.  She  only  beat  and  beat 
till  her  arms  dropped  to  her  side  for  pure 
physical  weariness. 

While  she  beat  me,  I  cowered  and  bit  my 
lip.  I  would  not  cry.  But  as  soon  as  she 
paused  for  breath,  I  stooped  down,  as  if  I 
had  not  even  noticed  her  blows,  and  picked 
up  Miranda,  on  whose  fragile  form  she  had 
stamped  her  foot.  "You  have  spoilt  my 
dolly ! "  I  exclaimed,  holding  it  up  before 
her. 

My  forced  and  pretended  nonchalance  ex- 
asperated her.  She  fell  upon  me  again.  This 
time  I  could  not  help  letting  the  tears  break 
their  barrier.  "  You  would  not  dare  to  do  it," 
I  cried  out,  grinding  my  teeth,  "  if  my  father 
was  here  ! "  She  cuffed  me  till  I  could  scarce 
cry  out  any  longer.  Then  she  let  me  fall  in 
the  sultry  white  dust  of  the  road,  and  shuffled 
angrily  homeward. 


70 


Rosalba 


I  lay  there  long,  huddled  up  in  a  mass,  sob- 
bing  and  crouching  in  my  helpless  misery.  A 
dog  came  and  sniffed  at  me.  I  could  not 
move,  I  was  so  sore.  My  shoulders  just  quiv- 
ered convulsively.  I  lay  and  let  my  grievance 
rankle  in  my  breast.  But  this  was  the  end  :  I 
had  made  up  my  mind.  I  would  stand  it  no 
longer.  I  would  set  forth  on  the  world,  like 
Rosalind  and  Celia. 

My  hair  lay  draggled  in  the  white  dust. 
I  sobbed  and  sobbed  till  I  could  sob  no 
more.  My  strength  failed  me.  It  was  not 
the  pain  that  troubled  me;  it  was  the  ig- 
nominy. 

Presently  old  Giuseppe  hobbled  down  from 
the  church,  muttering  to  himself  as  he  went  on 
his  way  home  to  his  dinner.  When  he  saw  me 
lying  there,  huddled  together  on  the  road  hke 
a  dead  thing,  he  approached  me  with  caution, 
and  turned  me  over  with  his  foot,  as  one  might 
turn  a  bundle  of  rags.  "  Come,  come,"  he 
said.  "It  is  thou,  Rosalba  Lupari !  Why, 
what  hast  thou,  my  little  one?  Thy  face  is 
crimson  ;  it  burns  with  crying  ! " 

"Mother  beat  me— because  I  would  not 
beg,"  I  answered,  aglow  with  rage  and  shame, 
yet  blurting  out  my  wrongs  like  a  child.     "  I 


A  Revolting  Daughter 


;i 


a  mass,  sob- 
misery.  A 
[  could  not 
rs  just  quiv- 
ly  grievance 
5  the  end  :  I 
stand  it  no 
e  world,  like 

white   dust. 

uld   sob    no 

It  was   not 

was  the  ig- 

i  down  from 
IS  he  went  on 
en  he  saw  me 
the  road  like 
with  caution, 
as  one  might 
e,  come,"  he 
ipari !  Why, 
Thy  face  is 

I  would  not 
re  and  shame, 
;  a  child.     "  I 


will  not  beg  for  her— when  my  babbino  is  at 
Padua ! " 

He  raised  me,  and  held  mc  off  by  one  arm 
as  one  might  hold  a  wounded  puppy.  "  She 
has  hurt  thee,"  he  said  at  last,  scanning  my 
bruised  face  and  ears.  "  She  is  cattiva,  that 
Englishwoman ! " 

*'  She  isn't  English  !  "  I  cried,  eager  even  in 
my  pain  for  the  honour  of  my  native  country. 
"  She  is  an  Irishwoman  ! " 

"  And  yet,  she  is  a  Christian  ! "  old  Giuseppe 
murmured,  stroking  his  three-days-old  beard. 
"  A  Catholic  like  ourselves,  too,  not  one  of 
these  mad  heretic  Inglcsi.  And  she  beats  you 
like  a  dog !  Come  home  with  me,  my  child, 
and  have  some  supper  !  " 

He  led  me  by  the  hand  to  his  cottage  on 
the  slope,  and  gave  me  polenta,  and  salami, 
and  a  little  thin  red  wine.  The  polenta  and 
the  sausage  I  ate  greedily,  for  I  was  hungry ; 
but  the  wine  I  put  away.  "  No,  never  any 
more,"  I  said  solemnly,  child  as  I  was ;  "  I  will 
not  taste  it.  That  makes  beasts  of  men  and 
women.     I  hate  it !  I  hate  it ! " 

"  The  child  is  a  strange  creature  ! "  old  Giu- 
seppe murmured  to  his  niece,  who  kept  house 
for  him.    "  She  has  the  evil  eye,  Adela.    Look 


72 


Rosalba 


at  her  thick  black  eyebrows  and  her  black 
lashes,  long  like  a  cat's  !  'T  is  fairy  spawn. 
But  her  mother  treats  her  ill.     Let  her  eat  and 

rest  here  ! " 

I  stopped  there  till  evening.    Then  Mariana, 

sucking  her  thumb  as  was  her  wont,  came  on 

an  embassy  to  fetch  me. 

"If  I  go  home  will  she  beat  me  again  ?  "  I 

asked  the  ambassador. 

"  No,"  Mariana  answered  defiantly.     "  How 

can  she  ?    She  dare  not !     She  is  afraid  of  me. 

I  will  not  let  her  lower  the  honour  of  the 
Lupari.  This  is  the  last  time.  I  will  tell  all 
to  father." 

It  was  the  last  time,   I   felt  sure.     That 
thought  consoled  me.       I  limped  home,  carry- 
ing   with    me    ostentatiously    Miranda    and 
Ferdinand,  whom   I    had   upholstered  afresh 
with  great  care  and  many  new  decorations,  in- 
cluding some  tags  of  coloured  wool  picked  up 
from  Adela's  >vorkbox ;  and  when  I  entered 
our  kitchen,  i  pretended  to  be  altogether  ab- 
sorbed in  playing  with  them,  never  casting  an 
eye  in   my   mother's  direction.     Her  glance 
was  fixed  upon  me,  but  she  said  nothing.     I 
sat   there   till  bedtime,    arranging   Miranda's 
skirt  from  a  blue  rag  Mariana  had  found  fgr 


I 


I  her  black 

airy  spawn. 

her  eat  and 


len  Mariana, 
nt,  came  on 

e  again  ?  "  I 

itly.     *'  How 

afraid  of  me. 

nour  of  the 

I  will  tell  all 

sure.  That 
home,  carry- 
liranda  and 
jtered  afresh 
xorations,  in- 
3ol  picked  up 
en  I  entered 
iltogether  ab- 
^er  casting  an 
Her  glance 
1  nothing.  I 
tig  Miranda's 
lad  found  fpr 


A  Revolting  Daughter 


73 


me.     Then  I  rose  abruptly   and  stole  off   to 
bed.    Mariana  stole  after  me  with  an  approving 
smile.     "  You  are  of  the  Lupari,"  she  whispered 
at  my  ear.     "  Never  yield,  Rosalba  ! " 
I  have  never  yielded. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE   WIDE   WORLD 


I  COVE  RED  my  head  with  the  bedclothes 
and  sobbed  myself  to  sleep.  Reality 
merged  into  dreamland.  But  before  I  slept, 
I  had  made  up  my  mind.  God  gave  me  the 
great  gift  of  discontent.  I  was  born  a  revolu- 
tionist in  the  grain,  like  my  father.  In  the 
little  State  called  home  I  saw  no  way  of  success- 
fully resisting  constituted  authority  by  constitu- 
tional means.  You  cannot  lead  a  Parliamentary 
Opposition  against  your  mother.  My  one  re- 
source lay  in  open  rebellion.  I  must  publish 
my  Declaration  of  Independence.  Before  sun- 
rise to-morrow  I  would  go  forth  on  the  world, 
in  defiance  of  all  law,  to  seek  adventures  like 
Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Law  is  injustice,  backed  up  by  force.  Free- 
dom is  lawlessness.  Read  these,  my  simple 
creed.     You  may  take  it  or  leave  it. 

74 


!U^ 


The  Wide  World 


75 


bedclothes 
I.  Reality 
Dre  I  slept, 
ave  me  the 
rn  a  re  vol  u- 
;r.  In  the 
r  of  success- 
by  constitu- 
rliamentary 
My  one  re- 
lust  publish 
Before  sun- 
1  the  world, 
intures  like 

)rce.     Free- 
my  simple 
t. 


Very  early  in  the  morning  I  woke  from  a 
sound  sleep.  The  rooks  cawed.  That  caw  was 
a  bugle-call.  I  woke  with  a  start,  half  crying. 
Then  everything  came  back  to  me :  I  re- 
called the  courage  expected  from  one  of  the 
house  of  the  Lupari.  (We  had  high  ideals  of 
the  honour  of  the  family.  Such  legends  are 
always  false — and  always  useful.)  I  rose 
and  dressed  myself  very  noiselessly  indeed. 
Mariana  opened  her  eyes  under  the  long  black 
lashes,  and  stared  at  me  with  a  sleepy  stare, 
but  said  nothing.  I  think  she  knew  what  I 
meant,  and  approved  my  plan,  but  scrupled  to 
commit  herself  to  active  connivance.  Dear 
Mariana's  r6le  in  life  is  diplomatic  prudence. 
I  crept  down-stairs  on  tiptoe,  lifted  the  latch  of 
the  door,  and  walked  out.  Nobody  else 
was  up.  I  had  the  Monti  Berici  to  myself. 
The  silence  assailed  me.  It  was  a  bright, 
clear  morning,  though  the  sun  was  unrisen  ; 
the  pale  sky  reddened  in  the  direction  of 
Padua. 

I  took  a  huge  hunk  of  bread  and  a  piece  of 
salt  fish,  and  stepped  lightly  forth  on  my 
voyage  of  exploration.  The  fiend  at  my  elbow 
tempted  me.  "  Via  !  "  says  the  fiend,  as  he  spake 
to  Lancelot  Gobbo  in  the  Talk-Book.    "  Via  !  " 


76 


Rosalba 


says  the  fiend.    "  Away  ! "  says  the  fiend,  "  'fore 
the  heavens ! " 

I  was  not  at  all  sad,  in  spite  of  the  great 
hush,  the  vast  blank  of  silence.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  remember,  as  soon  as  I  got  free  of  our 
cottage,  such  a  sense  of  joy  and  liberty  thrilled 
me  that  I  began  to  peal  out  Lodate  Maria 
from  sheer  delight  at  recovered  freedom.  The 
world  was  all  before  me  where  to  choose.  I 
was  bound  for  Bagdad  or  the  Forest  of 
Arden. 

Which  did  not  matter.  In  all  rational 
geographies  they  lie  all  round  us. 

I  knew  not  what  strange  joys  might  yet  be 
in  store  for  me  in  those  far,  near  realms  : 
what  dervishes  might  waft  me  on  enchanted 
carpets;  what  Orlandos  might  take  pity  on 
my  forlorn  condition. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  wise  in  my  generation. 
I  did  not  go  down  to  Vicenza.  People  were 
abroad  there  in  the  streets  all  night ;  and  I 
knew  that  mother's  first  idea  when  she  found 
I  had  flown  would  be  to  follow  me  into  the 
town  and  make  inquiries.  Besides,  Vicenza 
was  familiar — that  is  to  say,  commonplace.  I 
courted  the  Unknown.  So  I  mounted  instead 
towards  the  Madonna  del  Monte;  offered  a 


The  Wide  World 


11 


end, '"fore 

the  great 
n  the  con- 
free  of  our 
rty  thrilled 
late  Maria 
lorn.  The 
choose.  I 
Forest    of 

ill   rational 

ight  yet  be 

ar  realms  : 

enchanted 

ke  pity  on 

generation. 
*eople  were 
ight ;  and  I 
I  she  found 
le  into  the 
3S,  Vicenza 
onplace.  I 
ited  instead 
:  offered  a 


little  prayer  to  Our  Dear  Lady  as  I  passed, 
that  she  might  direct  me  aright  to  some  for- 
tunate issue ;  and  then  descended  the  hill  past 
the  Seven  Winds'  House — the  Casa  dei  Sette 
Venti — so  as  to  strike  the  main  road  from 
Vicenza  to  Verona  beyond  the  Campo  Marzio. 

Verona  was  the  town  where  Juliet  loved  and 
died.  I  peopled  it  still  with  Montagues  and 
Capulets. 

Beyond  the  Sette  Venti  the  road  was  strange 
to  me  and  very  lonely.  A  long  white  vista 
between  poplars  that  narrowed  and  met,  it 
ended  nowhere.  Tall  black  sty  presses  pointed 
heavenward  their  forbidding  fingers.  Dragons 
guarded  the  way ;  unseen  magicians  lined  it. 
I  began  to  be  afraid  and  felt  half  minded  to 
turn  back,  lest  basilisks  should  block  my  path. 
Dante's  harpies  affrighted  me.  Then  I  re- 
membered in  good  time  that  I  was  my  father's 
daughter.  Was  ifc  not  my  papa  who,  almost 
single-handed,  drove  a  hundred  thousand  armed 
Austrians  before  him,  and  waded  in  their  hate- 
ful Tedesco  blood  till  he  expelled  the  last  of  the 
craven  wretches  from  the  soil  of  Italy  ?  Cour- 
age, Rosalba  !  Let  not  cockatrices  alarm  you  ! 
Go  on,  go  on,  nor  ever  halt  nor  falter  till  fair 
fortune  find  you  in  the  market-place  of  Verona  ! 


I 


78 


Rosalba 


I 


I  trudged  alone  along  the  road  in  the  grey 
of  early  dawn.  The  red  flush  faded  from  the 
Paduan  sky.  A  rim  of  sun  rose  silent  over 
the  edge  of  the  Monti  Berici.  I  plodded  on 
and  on,  meeting  scarce  a  soul,  though  now 
blue  wreaths  of  smoke  began  to  roll  slowly 
from  isolated  farmhouses,  and  men  to  creep 
out  into  the  misty  fields,  among  the  maize  and 
the  vineyards.  The  dragons  retreated  as  the 
men  came  forth  ;  my  basilisks  hid  themselves  ; 
the  only  m.agicians  left  were  kindly  Prosperos. 
My   spirits   rose   again.     Ay,  now    I    was  in 

Arden. 

I  had  plodded  a  long  way,  with  the  Monti 
Berici  always  on  my  left,  and  the  trenchant 
skyline  of  the  Alps  on  my  right,  when  I  saw 
on  a  hilltop  towards  the  great  mountains  a 
ruined  castle.  It  loomed  against  the  sky 
strange  and  romantic— just  such  a  castle,  mas- 
sive and  battlemented,  with  huge  red  towers, 
the  exiled  Duke  must  have  quitted  when  he 
went  forth  into  the  woods  at  the  cruel  behest 
of  his  unnatural  brother.  Not  distant  from  it 
rose  another  and  far  newer  chdteau,  a  fantastic 
modern  building  of  much  gaudy  magnificence, 
walled  in  with  gardens  of  myrtle  and  bay,  and 
terraced  with  balustrades,  where  I  could  fancy 


I 


The  Wide  World 


79 


n  the  grey 
i  from  the 
jilent  over 
ilodded  on 
ough  now 
roll  slowly 
ti  to  creep 

maize  and 
ited  as  the 
iiemselves  ; 

Prosperos. 
I    was  in 

the  Monti 
;  trenchant 
when  I  saw 
lountains  a 
St  the  sky 
castle,  mas- 
red  towers, 
2d  when  he 
:ruel  behest 
tant  from  it 
(,  a  fantastic 
agnificence, 
nd  bay,  and 
could  fancy 


that  Rosalind  and  Celia  even  now  disported 
themselves  at  the  usurper's  court.  I  went  to 
visit  both  long  after  from  our  home  at  Vicenza, 
and  recalled  them  perfectly.  The  exiled 
Duke's  embattled  ruin  turned  out  to  be  the 
mediaeval  castle  of  Montecchio— the  home, 
strange  to  say,  of  those  very  "Montagues" 
whom  Shakespeare  had  iinmortalised ;  the 
flimsy  modern  chdteau  was  the  Montebello 
Vincentino,  the  domain  of  Count  Arrighi. 
But  I  knew  nothing  then  either  of  Shake- 
speare or  of  the  Arrighi.  The  Talk-Book  was 
to  me  as  authorless  a  document  as  the  Ara- 
bian Nights,  while  Romeo  and  Juliet  were 
historic  denizens  of  that  very  Verona  towards 
whose  domes  and  towers  my  weary  feet  were 
plodding. 

Men  passed  me  now  with  waggons  and 
teams  of  cream-coloured  oxen — big,  patient, 
large-eyed,  slow-paced  oxen  toiling  on  resign- 
edly.  The  day  grew  hot.  The  sun  beat  on 
me. 

Yet  I  was  immensely  happy,  though  happy, 
I  will  admit,  with  a  fearsome  joy — the  tumult- 
uous throbbing  joy  of  first-tasted  freedom. 
The  eloquent  silence  spoke  to  me.  Gnomes 
peeped  from  caverns  in  the  limestone  cliffs. 


L 


8o 


Rosalba 


Puck  danced  on  the  thistle-down.  I  had  fin- 
ished my  crust  of  bread  and  my  chunk  of  salt 
fish,  which  last  had  made  me  intolerably  thirsty. 
At  a  roadside  fountain  where  Melusina  lurked 
I  scooped  up  water  with  my  curved  hands  and 
drank.  The  jet  spurted  from  a  broken-nosed 
dolphin  in  a  shell-shaped  niche.  Then  I  sat 
down  with  my  back  against  the  peeling  trunk 
of  a  southern  plane,  and  began  to  sing,  out  of 
pure  glee  in  my  liberty. 

The  song  I  sang  was  an  English  one— I 
have  forgotten  now  what.  But  I  sang  it  with 
a  will,  very  loud  and  merrily. 

As  I  sat  and  sang,  taking  no  heed  for  the 
morrow,  a  man  and  a  woman  approached.  I 
looked  up  and  beheld— the  One-eyed  Calen- 
der! 

That  he  was  the  One-eyed  Calender  I  never 
Joubted  for  a  moment.      What  a  Calender's 
furecise  function  in  life  may  be  I  had  not  and 
have  not  the  faintest  conception.     I  do  not 
desire  to  know.     On  John  Stodmarsh's  library 
shelf  in  Avenue  Road,  St.  John's  Wood,  there 
stood,  and  no  doubt  still  stands,  in  a  conspicu- 
ous position  the  volume  of  Dr.  Murray's  great 
English  Dictionary  which  contains  the  words 
from  CaHn  to  Castaway.     1  looked  at  its  cover 


The  Wide  World 


8i 


I  had  fin- 
unk  of  salt 
ibly  thirsty, 
isina  lurked 
I  hands  and 
•oken-nosed 
Then  I  sat 
;eling  trunk 
sing,  out  of 

lish  one — I 
sang  it  with 

leed  for  the 
)roached.  I 
■eyed  Calen- 

nder  I  never 
a  Calender's 
had  not  and 
I.  I  do  not 
arsh's  library 
Wood,  there 
n  a  conspicu- 
[urray's  great 
ns  the  words 
2d  at  its  cover 


often,  and  reflected  that  there  (if  I  chose  to 
open  it)  I  could  learn  the  whole  truth,  the 
cold,  scientific,  etymological  truth,  about  the 
origin  and  meaning  of  the  word  Calender. 
But  I  preferred,  as  I  still  prefer,  my  ignorance. 
Let  us  leave  sojne  illusions.  A  Calender  to 
me  is  someone  vague,  mysterious,  oriental, 
wonderful.  He  dresses,  most  likely,  in  white 
samite,  and  lives  upon  dainties  culled  from 
silken  Samarcand  and  cedared  Lebanon.  I 
do  not  wish  to  be  told  that  he  merely  makes 
tape,  or  shoes  horses,  or  sells  false  jewellery,  or 
manufactures  steel  pens  for  the  use  of  the  In- 
dia Office.  I  hold  a  Calender  to  be  essentially 
a  man  with  one  eye,  whose  duties  and  pre- 
rogatives are  altogether  evasive. 

This  man  had  one  eye.  So  I  knew  he  was 
the  Calender. 

Otherwise,  he  chiefly  resembled  a  scarecrow. 
He  was  a  shambling  person,  with  clothes  that 
held  together  by  the  grace  of  God  rather  than 
by  the  common  laws  of  cohesion. 

He  regarded  me  with  amazement.  "  Listen  ! " 
he  said  to  his  wife — at  least,  I  saw  no  reason 
to  doubt  the  sallow  lady's  relationship,  "  What 
language  is  that  that  the  wild  thing  is  singing?" 

"It  is  English,"  I  answered.     "A  song  of 


8a 


Rosalba 


the  Inglesi!  "     I  had  not  yet  been  taught  that 
't  is  unladylike  to  converse  in  the  streets  with 
strangers.      That  knowledge  I  owed  'ater  to 
Her  Imperturbability  Miss  Westmacotc. 
••  How  didst  thou  learn  it,  little  witch?"  he 

asked. 

"How  did  you  learn  I  was  a  witch?"     I 

retorted. 

"  Nay,  but  tell  me." 

"  In  London,"  I  answered,  in  my  "  of  course  " 
tone  of  voice.  For  to  me  it  was  so  natural 
that  an  English-born  child  should  have  the  gift 
of  English. 

"  A  Londra  9 "  the  woman  echoed,  with  a 
little  start.     "  Thou  'st  been  there  ?  " 

"But  yes,"  I  answered,  laughing.  "What 
wouldst  have  ?     I  was  born  there." 

The  woman  looked  at  the  man.  The  man 
looked  at  the  woman.  They  exchanged  a 
quick-darted  glance  of  question  and  answer. 
Then  the  One-eyed  Calender  asked  in  a  tone 
of  candid  inquiry,  "  What  is  the  English  for 

pane ? " 

" Bread"  I  replied,  much  amused.     "  I  wish 

I  had  some  ! " 

The  woman  looked  at  the  man.  Her  face 
was  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief  for  toothache. 


I 


The  Wide  World 


83 


taught  that 
streets  with 
krec?  'ater  to 
acotc. 
witch?"  he 

witch?"     I 


•'  of  course  " 
s  so  natural 
lave  the  gift 

loed,  with  a 

?" 

iig.     "  What 

.  The  man 
exchanged  a 
and  answer. 
:ed  in  a  tone 
English  for 

;d.     "  I  wish 

1.     Her  face 
)r  toothache. 


The  man  nodded  and  said,  "  It  is  true.  Bread! 
And  for  vino  ?  " 

"  Wine"  I  answered,  wondering  not  a  little 
why  they  should  thus  catechise  me. 

The  pair  spoke  to  one  another  low  for  a 
minute.  Then  the  woman,  who  possessed  the 
relics  of  a  pug-nose,  pulled  out  a  slice  oi  panet- 
fone,  a  sort  of  common  cake — big  sultanas 
scattered  sparsely  like  islands  through  a  sea  of 
dough — and  handed  it  across  to  me.  She 
pulled  it  from  a  bundle  which  was  far  from 
clean ;  I  cannot  imagine  nowadays  how  I  ate 
it.  But  I  was  young ;  and  I  was  hungry — two 
powerful  incentives.  I  fell  to  it  yarely,  and 
ate  every  morsel ;  I  even  recollect  that  I 
thought  it  delicious.  Indeed,  I  have  a  fancy 
for  panettone  to  this  day,  and  always  buy  a 
couple  when  we  drop  down  to  Vicenza  from 
our  vineyard  on  the  hills ;  you  can  get  them 
most  excellently  confectioned  at  a  pastry-cook's 
shop  in  the  Piazza  delle  Blade. 

The  sallow  woman  glanced  at  my  feet. 
They  were  naturally  dusty.  If  you  could  see 
that  road !  "  Thou  hast  come  far  this  morn- 
ing," she  murmured. 

I  admitted  th  i  fact.  "  I  rose  early,"  I  ex- 
plained. 


84 


Rosalba 


"  Whence  dost  come  ?" 
The  spontaneous  Italian  expedient  of  a  lie 
at  once  occurred  to  me.  "  From  Schio,"  I  an- 
swered mendaciously.  (Remember,  all  this 
antedated  Miss  Westmacott,  at  whose  excel- 
lent Select  School  for  Young  Ladies  I  learned 
better  morals  and  better  manners.) 

She  shook  her  unkempt  head.  "  No,  no ; 
't  is  too  far !     Vicenza  at  utmost." 

"  Oh,  if  you  doubt  me—"  I  cried ;  then  1 
remembered  that  I  was  lying.  Virtuous  indig- 
nation sits  ill  on  the  detected. 

'♦  Vicenza  ? "  she  repeated,  with  an  interroga- 
tive accent,  scanning  my  face  to  see  if  her 
guess  was  right. 

I  surrendered  at  discretion  and  ate  my  lie. 
''St,  St;  Vicenza!" 

"  Then  why  didst  thou  seek  to  deceive  me  ?  " 
I  was  on  adventures  bound,  and  the  One- 
eyed  Calender  had  the  air  of  an  adventurer. 
In  the  background  stood,  in  point  of  fact,  his 
symbol  and  means  of  livelihood,  a  scissors- 
grinder's  wheel.  What  life  more  venturesome 
than  the  free  life  of  the  road  ?  I  risked  my 
all  on  one  bold  cast.  *'  I  am  running  away 
from  home,"  I  answered,  shaming  the  devil. 
He  fled,  discomfited. 


t 


lient  of  a  lie 
Schio,"  I  an- 
iber,  all  this 
whose  excel- 
lies  I  learned 

.) 

"  No,  no ; 

II 

ried ;  then  I 
irtuous  indig- 

an  interroga- 
o  see   if  her 

id  ate  my  lie. 

deceive  me  ?  " 
and  the  One- 
n  adventurer, 
tit  of  fact,  his 
id,  a  scissors- 
e  venturesome 
I  risked  my 
running  away 
ing  the   devil. 


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The  Wide  World 


85 


The  woman's  keen  eyes  gazed  at  my  welted 
neck  and  arms.  "  Father  ?"  she  asked  at  last, 
with  a  comprehending  air. 

I  drew  back  as  if  stung.  "  Father ! "  I 
cried  in  horror.  "  Oh,  no ;  he  is  so  good. 
Not  him,  but  mother." 

Their  glance  met  again,  darting  rapid  sig- 
nals. "Speak  English  well?"  the  woman 
asked  in  our  elliptical  Italian  fashion. 

"  All  as  well  as  Italian." 

"  Say  in  English,  '  This  lady  and  gentleman 
are  my  father  and  mother.' " 

I  said  it  unhesitatingly. 

"  Speak  more." 

I  burst  out  into  the  passionate  recital  of  my 
wrongs,  and  my  reasons  for  leaving  home.  It 
was  a  relief  to  me  to  unburden.  I  knew  they 
did  not  understand  one  word  I  spoke ;  but 
that  was  all  the  better.  I  would  have  been  too 
proud  to  let  them  know  if  they  had  compre- 
hended what  I  said  ;  but  the  mere  outpouring 
of  my  heart  in  speech  acted  like  an  outlet  to  my 
pent-up  indignation.  I  opened  the  flood-gates. 
I  waxed  eloquent,  in  English. 

"She  will  do,"  the  woman  said  shortly. 
"  Little  witch,  wouldst  like  to  come  with 
us?" 


86 


Rosalba 


"  Why  do  you  call  me  little  witch  ?  "  I  asked, 

hanging  back. 

"  Because  of  thy  big  saucer  eyes  and  thy 
long  black  eyelashes.  Thou  wilt  tell  fortunes 
in  time.  Thou 'st  the  air  of  a  sorceress.  It  is 
a  merry  life  on  the  road,  and  I  can  see  thou 
art  one  that  loves  well  freedom.  We  sleep 
where  we  can ;  we  eat  what  we  earn ;  we  go 
where  we  choose  ;  and  we  pay  no  sou  of  rent 
or  tax  to  anyone ! " 

" Sta  bene':  I  answered.     "  I  ask  no  more. 
I  came  forth  to-day  in  search  of  adventures. 
But  behold"— I  drew  myself  up  and  bared  my 
bruised  arm.     "  I  have  run  away  froni  home 
because  of  these  stripes.     Treat  me  well,  and  I 
stop  with  you,  no  matter  where  you  go;  but 
beat  me"-I  paused,  then  I  drew  my  hand 
threateningly  across  my  bare  brown  throat- 
"  and  you  will  answer  for  it ! " 

"  Is  she  a  witch  ?  "  the  man  cried,  laughmg. 
"  I  ask  you  but  that,  Is  she  a  witch  ?  In  time 
the  child  ought  to  be  worth  any  money." 

The  woman  murmured  something  deprecat- 
ing in  a  tongue  I  did  not  know.  Only  long 
after  did  I  see  some  in  print,  and  learn  that  it 
was  the  ancient  tinkers'  language.  But  I 
understood,  all   the  same :  she  was  warning 


The  Wide  World 


87 


1?"  I  asked, 

yes  and  thy 
tell  fortunes 
ceress.  It  is 
can  see  thou 
We  sleep 
earn ;  we  go 
o  sou  of  rent 

ask  no  more. 
>f  adventures, 
and  bared  my 
ly  from  home 
me  well,  and  I 
:  you  go ;  but 
irew  my  hand 
rown  throat — 

ried,  laughing, 
tch?  In  time 
money." 
thing  deprecat- 
w.  Only  long 
id  learn  that  it 
guage.  But  I 
e  was  warning 


him  not  to  give  me  too  good  a  conceit  of 
myself. 

Still  the  man  was  not  yet  satisfied.  He 
sampled  me  all  over  as  if  I  were  a  dog  for  sale. 
Then  "  Run  ! "  he  cried,  clapping  his  hands. 

I  ran. 

"  Run  till  I  say  iurn  /  "  he  continued. 

I  ran  on,  and  back  again  when  he  bid  me. 

He  listened  at  my  chest  and  felt  my  arms 
when  I  got  back  to  him,  running  my  hardest. 
Apparently  he  judged  me  sound  in  wind  and 
limb,  for  he  smiled  as  he  finished. 

Though  unprepossessing  in  appearance,  he 
had  not  an  unkindly  voice  or  manner.  "  Look 
here,  little  one,"  he  said,  twitching  his  face  in  a 
queer  way  that  was  habitual  with  him,  "we 
are  going  to  England,  and  we  have  need  of 
an  interpreter.  England  is  a  very  great  and 
rich  country,  where  all  the  people  have  much 
money,  and  where  everything  is  most  beauti- 
ful." (That  was  scarcely  my  recollection  of 
Leather  Lane ;  but  I  held  my  peace,  not  feel- 
ing myself  called  on  for  criticism.)  "  If  thou 
wilt  come  with  us  and  interpret  for  us,  we  will 
promise  not  to  beat  thee.  We  are  not  rich  ;  we 
are  poverini,  we  others,  as  thou  seest ;  but  we 
will  share  everything  with  thee,  as  with  our 


88 


Rosalba 


own  daughter.      We  will  be  thy  father  and 
mother.     Come  ;  is  it  a  bargain  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  bargain,"  I  answered  ;  "  faith  of  the 

Lupari ! " 

At  that  they  both  laughed,  though  I  meant 
it  as  a  solemn  form  of  adjuration.  Their 
laugh  grated.  I  saw  my  new  allies  did  not 
take  my  family  and  the  moral  law  as  seriously 

as  I  did. 

But  1  was  free—  that  was  well.  I  am  an 
amateur  of  freedom.  All  the  troubles  that 
have  come  upon  me  through  life  have  come 
through  my  resolute  determination  to  be  my- 
self at  all  hazards.  Yet  I  would  incur  them 
again  rather  than  prove  false  to  my  own 
nature.  Better  the  frosty  dews  under  ?.  con- 
venient hedge  than  to  have  one's  thoughts  and 
beliefs  and  habits  dictated  to  one. 

"Budge!"  said  the  fiend.  *' Budge  not!" 
said  my  conscience.  "Fiend!"  said  I, 
"you  counsel  well.  My  heels  are  at  your 
commandment." 


father  and 

faith  of  the 

igh  I  meant 

on.      Their 

Ues  did  not 

as  seriously 

.  I  am  an 
roubles  that 
:  have  come 
)n  to  be  my- 
incur  them 
to  my  own 
under  ?.  con- 
thoughts  and 

Budge  not!" 

I!"     said    I, 

are   at  your 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    LOG   OF    A    LAND   CRUISE 

IF  you  are  a  stupid  person,  who  want  to  be 
amused,  take  my  advice  and  skip  this 
chapter. 

We  slept  that  night  at  San  Bonifacio,  in  a 
fifth-rate  inn  ;  next  day  we  proceeded  on  our 
way  to  Verona. 

O  Siren  Verona  !  what  shall  I  say  of  thee  ? 
I  have  seen  thee  often  since,  dear  Siren,  ever 
beautiful,  ever  picturesque,  ever  the  most 
Italian  sight  in  Italy !  But  that  whirling  first 
glimpse,  in  that  strange,  weird  company — how 
effective  it  was,  how  Veronese,  how  appropri- 
ate !  We  arrived,  not  prosaically  by  rail,  but 
straggling  footsore  over  the  Roman  bridge 
that  crosses  the  Adige.  It  chanced  to  be 
market-day ;  and  we  went  straight  through  the 
narrow  paved  streets  into  the  arcaded  Piazza 
delle   Erbe,  alive  with  booths,  and   crowded 

89 


I 


90 


Rosalba 


with  market-women  under  their  red  umbrellas. 
Huge,  ribbed  and  wrinkled  melons  smiled 
temptingly  on  the  stalls ;  purple  aubergines 
hung  in  shining  bunches  from  the  sides  of  the 
carts ;  yellow  pumpkins  lay  huddled  in  care- 
less heaps  on  the  ground ;  all  was  noise  and 
bustle  and  colour  and  plenty.  As  for  apples 
and  oranges,  they  glutted  the  market.  The 
One-eyed  Calender  bought  a  pink-fleshed  water- 
melon as  big  as  a  horse's  head ;  I  eyed  it 
thirstily.  He  cut  a  juicy  slice  out  of  its  middle 
with  his  pocket-knife  (first  cleaning  the  edge  in 
his  mouth),  and  gave  it  me  to  eat  as  I  stood 
and  gazed  up  at  the  columns  and  statues  of 
the  crumbling  Piazza.  The  World  beyond 
Vicenza — oh,  the  World  beyond  Vicenza  was 
beautiful  and  wonderful !  Not  in  wildest 
dreams  of  Bagdad  or  Cairo  had  I  pictured 
aught  lovelier,  aught  more  romantic,  than 
Verona ! 

To  see  that  siren  first  with  a  child's  eyes — 
round  eyes  of  wonder ;  well — Madonna  del 
Monte,  thou  hadst  been  truly  kind  to  me ! 

I  looked  for  the  balcony  where  Juliet  leaned 
out  to  speak  with  Romeo,  and  I  soon  found  it. 
In  point  of  fact,  I  found  it  ten  deep  in  every 
mouldering  street.       All  poetry  might  come 


I 


I 


\ 


umbrellas, 
ns  smiled 
lubergines 
des  of  the 
;d  in  care- 
noise  and 
for  apples 
ket.  The 
ihed  water- 
I  eyed  it 
its  middle 
the  edge  in 
as  I  stood 
statues  of 
Id  beyond 
Icenza  was 
in  wildest 
I  pictured 
mtic,  than 

Id's  eyes — 
donna  del 
to  me ! 
iliet  leaned 
n  found  it. 
p  in  every 
light  come 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise         91 

true  any  day  in  Verona.  What  tragedies  hid 
themselves  behind  those  round-arched  loggre  f 
What  eyes  peered  down  from  those  mysterious 
persiennes  / 

Alas,  however,  this  planet  is  ruled  by  Supply 
and  Demand,  not  by  poetry  !  The  demand  for 
scissors-sharpeners  was  slack  in  Verona.  By 
the  end  of  three  days  we  had  ground  and  set 
every  rickety  pair  from  the  Porta  Vescovo  to 
San  Zeno  Maggiore,  and  were  outward  bound 
once  more  bv  dustv  roads  on  onr  Inner  <5lnw 
journey  northward  and  westward. 

I  acquit  the  One-eyed  Calender  of  deliberate 
divagation.  It  was  his  honest  intention  to 
proceed  by  the  directest  route  he  knew  to 
England.  But  the  directest  route  in  his  case 
was  not  the  St.  Gothard.  Motion,  I  now  know 
(thanks  to  Miss  Westmacott),  follows  the  line 
of  least  resistance.  To  a  scissors-grinder,  the 
line  of  least  resistance  is  the  path  which  leads 
him  past  the  largest  number  of  poor  scissors- 
owning  populations.  Poor,  I  say,  for  the 
reckless  rich  throw  away  old  scissors,  instead 
of  grinding  them.  Placards  on  the  walls  by  the 
Verona  railway  station  informed  us  (in  flaring 
red  and  green)  that  London  could  be  reached 
direct  in  thirty-six  hours.     That  was  not  our 


I 


92 


Rosalba 


experience.  We  took  fourteen  months  to 
straggle  deviously  as  far  as  Paris,  with  frequent 
stoppages  by  the  way  for  rest  and  refreshment. 

If  the  One-eyed  Calender  had  refreshed  less 
frequently,  indeed,  't  is  probable  we  might  have 
journeyed  faster ;  for  we  were  all  three  good 
walkers,  and  the  roads  were  straight  with  con- 
tinental straightness.  Their  parallel  lines  of 
poplars  converged  and  met  somewhere  about 
infinity.  But  my  new  master  had  a  shuffling 
sidelong  gait,  much  like  a  hermit-crab's :  I 
attributed  it  in  part  Lo  the  long  effects  of  that 
constant  uncertainty  which  has  its  origin  in 
wine.  It  was  his  habit,  indeed,  to  spend  in 
drink  the  larger  part  of  his  gains,  whenever  he 
made  any.  I  cannot  call  him  a  turbulent  or  a 
savage  drunkard  ;  what  he  had  promised  me 
was  true  :  he  never  beat  me.  But  he  used  to 
sit  down  at  wayside  inns  and  drink,  drink, 
drink,  in  a  solemn,  serious,  sober  spirit,  like 
one  who  knew  few  other  pleasures,  and  who 
was  conscientiously  determined  to  make  the 
most  of  this  one.  He  drank  earnestly.  He 
was  a  philosopher  in  his  way,  and  his  philo- 
sophy was  Omarian. 

"  The  rich,  look  thou,  Rosalba,"  he  used  to 
say  to  me ;  "  the  rich  have  many  enjoyments. 


N 


nonths  to 
h  frequent 
■reshment. 
eshed  less 
night  have 
hree  good 
;  with  con- 
el  lines  of 
lere  about 
1  shuffling 
t-crab's :  I 
:ts  of  that 

origin  in 
5  spend  in 
lenever  he 
julent  or  a 
jmised  me 
he  used  to 
nk,  drink, 
spirit,  like 
,  and  who 

make  the 
estly.  He 
.  his  philo- 

he  used  to 
njoyments. 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise         93 

The  poor  have  one.  I  do  not  blame  the 
aristos  that  they  frequent  the  races,  the  theatre, 
the  circus,  the  promenade;  I  would  do  as 
much  myself,  were  I  an  aristo.  I  do  not 
blame  them  that  they  have  singers  and  dancers 
and  players  to  amuse  them.  Singing,  danc- 
ing, and  playing  are  well  if  you  can  afford 
them.  But  the  poor  man  has  only  one  club, 
the  osteria,  only  one  pleasure,  to  get  drunk 
when  possible.  Then  he  should  do  it  always. 
Life  is  not  so  rich  in  enjoyments  that  he  can 
afford  to  miss  the  best  it  gives  him.  When 
they  make  me  a  marchese,  I  will  mend  my 
ways ;  while  I  remain  a  scissors-grinder,  I 
shall  practise  such  life  as  seems  gayest  for  my 
profession." 

Within  the  first  few  days  of  our  companion- 
ship, however,  the  Calender  began  to  learn  that 
I  would  not  taste  wine ;  and  being  the  wreck 
of  a  Mephistopheles,  he  loved  to  tempt  me. 
I  have  as  few  prejudices,  I  flatter  myself,  as 
most  Italians ;  and  certainly  I  was  at  no  time 
a  bigoted  teetotaller ;  but  since  that  day  on 
the  Monti  Berici,  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
never  to  taste  again  the  moral  poison.  I 
believed  it  begot  habits  of  injustice.  Later  in 
life  (I  write  calmly  of  my  past  from  the  specu- 


94 


Rosalba 


lar  mount  of  seven-and-twenty)  my  objection 
was  based  on  the  definite  idea  that  in  a  family 
where  the  demon  of  drink  had  once  entered, 
one  should  meet  his  first  blandishments  with 
a  stern  "  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  ! "  But 
in  this  earlier  stage,  when  I  had  not  so  much 
as  heard  that  modern  Mesopotamia,  the  blessed 
word  heredity,  I  knew  only  that  I  did  not  wish 
to  resemble  my  mother.  Do  not  fjincy  me  a 
preacher ;  I  know  what  I  am  saying ;  and  if 
you  doubt  my  breadth  of  mind,  I  will  join  you 
forthwith  in  a  bottle  of  champagne,  just  to 
show  you  at  once  that  I  am  not  bigoted. 

But  the  One-eyed  Calender,  as  I  say,  loved 
to  attack  my  resolve.  He  would  pour  out  a 
glass  of  our  small  red  wine— very,  very  small— 
and  would  hold  it  up  to  the  light  to  show  me 
how  it  danced.  Then  he  would  murmur  insin- 
uatingly, with  a  gleam  of  white  teeth — age 
never  darkened  them—"  Good !  Ah,  so  good  ! 
Just  one  little  sip,  pic  cola !  That  will  put 
fresh  legs  into  thy  threadbare  stockings  when 
thou  art  tired  with  walking  !  " 

I  shook  my  head,  capered  about  a  bit  in 
pantomimic  refusal,  and  answered,  "  No,  no." 
The  Calender's  wife  upheld  me  in  my  decision. 
Middle-aged  women  are  always  virtuous— for 


objection 
{\  a  family 
2  entered, 
lents  with 
n!"  But 
t  so  much 
he  blessed 
d  not  wish 
^ncy  me  a 
\g ;  and  if 
11  join  you 
c,  just  to 
)ted. 

say,  loved 
30ur  out  a 
;ry  small — 
)  show  me 
•mur  insin- 
teeth — age 
1,  so  good ! 
.t  will  put 
cings  when 

Lit  a  bit  in 
"No,  no." 
ly  decision, 
tuous — for 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise         95 

their  charges.  Besides,  she  saw  no  reason 
why  good  red  wine  should  be  wasted  on  imps 
who  did  not  want  it. 

Our  wanderings  were  long  and  slow.     They 
were   also   tedious.     We    had   no   Circassian 
slaves,    no  enchanted  carpets.     Yet    I   thank 
God   that   He   taught   me  betimes  the  ste.'-n 
lesson  of    indigence.     We   marched   first   by 
road,  with  our  kits  on  our  backs,  past  the  Lago 
di  Garda;  then  on  by  Brescia  and  Treviglio 
through  the  boundless  plain  to  Milan.     That 
was  the  grandest  place  I  had  ever  seen  in  my 
life— Milan !     I  thought   it  then,  and  indeed 
think  It  now,  a  vast  deal  handsomer  and  nobler 
than  London.     It  may  be  childish  memory ; 
It  may  be  personal  taste  ;  but  I  know  no  town 
that  impresses  me  still  so  much  with  its  magni- 
ficence.     I  adhere  to  this  day  to  my  qualifying 
adjective.     My  countrymen  call  it  MtVano  la 
grande!  and  they  are  right.     Milan  is  grand ; 
Pans  is  only  grandiose.     But  alas,  the  knife- 
grinding  trade  languished  in  Milan  !    'T  was 
ever  thus.     When  we  arrived  at  a  town  where 
I  should  have  loved  to  tarry— a  town  full  of 
bright  shops  and  splendidly  robed  ladies— the 
One-eyed  Calender  grumbled  perpetually  that 
business  was  slack;   while    the   Signora  his 


96 


Rosalba 


wife,  who  arranged  for  our  installation,  com- 
plained that  the  price  of  a  night's  lodging  was 
exorbitant.     But    when    we   passed    through 
squalid,  brown-tiled  villages,  where  we  slept  in 
open  maize-barns  or  under  the  windy  shelter  of 
hayricks,  the  One-eyed  Calender's  remaining 
eye  lit  up  with  pleasure ;  there,  trade  simply 
boomed,  soldi  rained  upon  us,  red  wine  ruled 
cheap,  and  the  village  fathers,  conspicuously 
free  from   aristocratic  exclusiveness,  sat   and 
gossiped  late  with  us  en  sanded  floors  as  to 
how   affairs  marched  in  Milan  and  the  Pro- 
vinces.    At  such  spots,  wo  were  hailed  as  in 
the  thick  of  the  Movement. 

It  was  a  wild  free  life  ;  in  its  way,  I  will 
honestly  confess,  I  loved  it. 

A  gipsy-like  strain  runs  through  my  blood 
even  to-day.  I  decline  to  be  a  moilusk.  For 
two  pins,  I  could  give  up  my  comfortable  home 
in  Aunt  Emily's  vineyards  on  the  Monti 
Berici,  and  wander  the  world  once  more,  as 
with  the  One-eyed  Calender. 

From  Milan  our  trail  grew  more  and  more 
devious.  Being  ultimately  bound  for  England, 
of  course  we  turned  our  faces  southward 
toward  Genoa.  We  marched  in  Indian  file. 
The  Calender  led  the  company ;  the  Signora 


\ 


lation,  corn- 
lodging  was 
id  through 
;  we  slept  in 
dy  shelter  of 
s  remaining 
rade  simply 
I  wine  ruled 
)nspicuously 
2ss,  sat  and 
floors  as  to 
nd  the  Pro- 
hailed  as  in 


way, 


I  will 


jh  my  blood 
ioilusk.  For 
artable  home 
the  Monti 
ice  more,   as 

)re  and  more 
for  England, 
s  southward 
1  Indian  file. 
;  the  Signora 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise         97 

followed  at  a  varying  distance ;  I  brought  up 
the  rear,  especially  towards  evening.     A  few 
days  of  such   straggling  march   through    the 
Lombard  level  saw  us  at  the  foot  of  some  high 
green  hills,  which  the  One-eyed  Calender  knew 
as  the    ".pennines.     He  was  no  geographer; 
he  could  not  use  a  map  ;  but  he  had  the  born 
wayfarer's   mstinct    for   routes ;  and  when    I 
follow  our  track   now  on  the  best  atlases,  I 
cannot  see  that  he  ever  took  a  wrong  turn- 
allowing  of  course  for  the   necessary  divaga- 
tions of  the  scissors-grinding   industry.     The 
object  of  people  in  our  line  of  business  was 
not  to  find  the  shortest  road  from  spot  to  spot, 
with  monotonous  accuracy,  but  to  select  the 
track  that  would  lead  past  the  greatest  number 
of  scissors-using  villages,  without  ever  exposing 
one  for  any  length  of  time  to  the  chance  of 
traversing  unpopulated   or,  what  was  worse, 
scissors-barren  country. 

I  remember  well  that  green  tramp  over  the 
Apennines  :— the  long  steep  rise  ;  the  bivouac- 
by  the  side  of  churning  torrents  ;  the  wind 
that  displayed  the  Signora's  meagre  anatomy 
through  her  clinging  rags  •  the  compassionate 
bread-offerings  of  brown-skinned  peasant  wo- 
men who  took  pity  on  me,  shivering,  for  a 


98 


Rosalba 


footsore  poverina ;  the  halt  on  the  bare  sum- 
mit ;  the  glorious  descent  upon  basking  Genoa, 
ringed  round  with  tiers  of  hills  like  the  seats 
in  a  circus.  Can  I  forget  the  hungry  mood  in 
which  we  wound  our  way  down  the  endless 
slopes  of  that  interminable  zigzag  ?  There  is 
no  plan  to  realise  the  size  of  a  country  like 
plodding  across  it  on  foot.  By  so  doing,  you 
measure  yourself  against  it.  I  have  a  just 
conception  of  the  true  bigness  of  France  and 
Italy  which  wholly  fails  me  when  I  try  to  pict- 
ure the  relative  extent  of  California  or  Texas. 

I  may  as  well  finish  this  dull  description  of 
our  route  at  once,  now  that  I  am  about  it. 
Were  my  purpose  merely  to  write  an  agree- 
able story,  I  might  curtail  the  wh  Je,  or  suggest 
it  for  you  instead  by  a  few  graphic  anecdotes 
and  vivid  drai.iatic  scenes  of  particular  adven- 
tures. But  I  am  too  stern  a  realist.  Every 
novel  worth  the  name  is  autobiographic,  a 
transcript  from  life— one's  own  reminiscences, 
aptly  selected  and  artistically  presented.  That 
alone  carries  conviction.  My  desire  is  there- 
fore to  picture  my  adventures  to  you  as  faith- 
fully as  I  may ;  and  I  cannot  put  you  at  my 
point  of  view  without  insisting  a  little  on  this 
mere  skeleton  framework  of  aimless  wander- 


\ 


e  bare  sum- 
king  Genoa, 
Ice  the  seats 
gry  mood  in 

the  endless 
?  There  is 
country  like 
)  doing,  you 
have  a  just 

France  and 
I  try  to  pict- 
a  or  Texas, 
escription  of 
im  about  it. 
te  an  agree- 
e,  or  suggest 
ic  anecdotes 
icular  adven- 
dist.  Every 
>iographic,  a 
iminiscences, 
:nted.  That 
sire  is  there- 
you  as  faith- 
t  you  at  my 

little  on  this 
iless  wander- 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise         99 

ings.      From  Genoa  we  marched  slowly,  up 
and  down  hill,  one  slope  after  another,  like  a 
switchback   railway,  along  a  narrow  strip  of 
coast   between   the   mountains   and   the  sea, 
which,  as  I  now  know,  English  people  call  the 
Riviera.      Silvery-shuddering  olives  clung  to 
the  slopes;   Judas-trees  flamed  on  the  rocky 
headlands.     It  was  a  monotonously  beautiful 
tramp— day  after  day  we  started  at  dawn  from 
some  white  village  in  a  hot  river  valley  (where 
we  had  just  ground  all  the  scissors  the  inhabit- 
ants possessed),   mounted  a  steep   hill   with 
wide  map-like  views   over   the    blue     vater, 
crossed  a  panoramic  ridge,  and  descended  on 
the  other  side,  weary  and  thirsty,  at  the  ring- 
ing of  the  Angelus,  to  a  similar  white  village, 
with  a  whitewashed  church,  and  a  fresh  crop 
of  scissors,  which  struck  monotonous  sparks 
from  the  monotonous  wheel  with  a  monotonous 
drone  that  grew  positively  odious  to  me.      I 
hated  everything  but  the  hills  and  the  sea,  the 
silver  of  the  olives  and  the  gold  of  the  orange- 
groves.     Those  grew  daily  dearer.     They  kept 
alive  within  me  the  poetic  instinct. 

At  last,  hemmed  in  between  the  mountains 
and  the  shore,  we  began  to  reach  a  long  line 
of  splendid  meretricious  towns  :  towns  whose 


ICX) 


Rosalba 


like  I  had  not  seen  before— courtesans  of  the 
great— San    Remo,   Mentone,   Nice,    Cannes, 
Monte  Carlo.      There,  scissors  flagged.      The 
poor  have  no  part  in  them.      We  hurried  past 
them  all,  gleaming  white  in  the  sun,  and  smil- 
ing with  their  rows  of  villas  towards  the  sea ; 
we   made  for  Marseilles   and  up   the  Rhdne 
valley  in  the  direction  of  Paris.     We  jogged 
on  deliquescent  through  the  arid  fields,  with 
the  thermometer  at  ninety  in  the  shade— if 
there  had  been  any.     I  cannot  rattle  down  the 
Rhdne  valley  now  in  the  train  de  luxe,  past 
those  grim  grey  towns,  without  a  sigh  and  a 
smile  for  the  far-off  time  when  we  toiled  up  it 
slowly,  ten  kilometres  a  day,  along  sun-baked 
roads,  half  barefoot  and  half  clad,  in  draggled 
procession— the  One-eyed  Calender  in  front, 
singing  and  wagging  his  head — he   had  St. 
Vitus's  dance— and  trundling  his  wheel  before 
him ;  the  Signora  his  wife  slouching  behind, 
with  a  bone  in  both  hands,  in  her  anxiety  to 
extract  from  it  the  last  particle  of  nourish- 
ment ;  and  myself  trailing  after,  a  little  on  one 
side,  in  the  narrow  shadow  of  the  walls,  watch- 
ing the  lizards  dart  into  sheltered  holes  as  I 
approached,  and  envying  them  the  cool  cran- 
nies where  I  could  not  follow  them. 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise       loi 


esans  of  the 
ce,    Cannes, 
gged.      The 
hurried  past 
in,  and  smil- 
irds  the  sea; 
the  Rhdne 
We  jogged 
I  fields,  with 
ke  shade — if 
tie  down  the 
de  luxe,  past 
a  sigh  and  a 
e  toiled  up  it 
ig  sun-baked 
,  in  draggled 
der  in  front, 
—he   had  St. 
wheel  before 
:hing  behind, 
er  anxiety  to 
3  of  nourish- 
i  little  on  one 
;  walls,  watch- 
ed holes  as  I 
;he  cool  cran- 


All  this  time  I  was  learning,  learning,  learn- 
ing. People  have  often  expressed  surprise  to 
me  since  that,  with  "  my  early  disadvantages," 
I  should  yet  be  able  to  hold  my  own  in  society. 
To  me,  the  wonder  seems  all  the  other  way : 
how  do  our  women  come  to  know  anything 
when  they  have  never  had  points  of  contact 
with  realities  ? 

No  schooling  was  allowed  to  interfere  with 
my  education.  I  was  getting  a  clear  idea  of 
European  geography,  and  a  distinct  concep- 
tion of  the  value  of  centesimi.  I  was  also, 
imperceptibly  to  myself,  adding  to  my  little 
stock  of  languages.  Before  we  reached  Paris, 
I  spoke  Proven9al  and  French  as  well  as  I  al- 
ready spoke  English  and  Italian.  Not  that  I 
even  knew  I  was  learning  them.  That  is  the 
best  of  being  bilingual ;  given  two  tongues,  all 
others  come  easily.  Moving  slowly  as  we  did 
along  the  debatable  borderland  of  the  lan- 
guages, through  Genoa  and  the  Ligurian  coast 
to  Provence,  and  then  up  the  Rhdne  valley,  I 
hardly  even  noticed  at  the  time  the  demarca- 
tion of  dialects.  They  melt  into  one  another 
imperceptibly.  It  seemed  to  me  only  that,  as 
I  trailed  ever  westward  and  northward,  the 
people  spoke  progressively  worse  and  worse 


102 


Rosalba 


Italian.  What  was  oddest  of  all,  when  we 
first  entered  France  it  was  the  common  peo- 
ple who  spoke  best,  and  the  signori  who  spoke 
the  most  clipped  and  distorted  dialect.  Only 
gradually  did  I  learn,  as  we  neared  Lyons  and 
Dijon,  that  this  extremely  bad  and  mispro- 
nounced Italian  was  what  people  call  French, 
and  that  the  better  the  French  the  curter  and 
more  maimed  and  debased  the  words  in  it. 
Something  of  that  feeling  persists  with  me  to 
this  day;  though  I  now  speak  French  with 
ease,  and  immensely  admire  the  grace  of 
French  literature,  the  language  itself  sounds 
to  me  always  like  bastard  Italian.  John  Stod- 
marsh  tells  me  that  is  because  it  is  the  furthest 
removed  of  all  Romance  tongues  from  the 
original  Latin.  He  says  I  was  really  a  phi- 
lologist sans  le  savoir. 

Philologist  or  not,  thus  it  came  about  that 
I  grew  into  a  linguist.  For  this  I  think  there 
were  ample  reasons.  If  one  starts  with  Italian 
and  English,  French  is  hardly  more  than  a 
half-way  house,  having  relations  with  both. 
But  more  than  that ;  those  who  do  not  love 
me  will  tell  you  that  I  am  in  type  an  adven- 
turess. Now  it  is  a  common  note  of  adven- 
turesses that,  clever  or  stupid,  they  invariably 


1,  when  we 
)mmon  peo- 
i  who  spoke 
lect.  Only 
I  Lyons  and 
and  mispro- 
call  French, 
e  curter  and 
\rords  in  it, 
i  with  me  to 
French  with 
e  grace  of 
tself  sounds 
John  Stod- 
1  the  furthest 
es  from  the 
really  a  phi- 

e  about  that 
[  think  there 
J  with  Italian 
nore  than  a 
i  with  both, 
do  not  love 
je  an  adven- 
te  of  adven- 
ey  invariably 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise        103 

possess  the  gift  of  tongues— without  which, 
indeed,  you  are  not  an  adventuress  at  all,  but 
a  mere  ordinary  dishonest  body.     Adventur- 
esses are  the  intellectual  aristocracy  of  crime. 
I  have  learnt  with  ease  every  European  lan- 
guage I  have  come   across,  except  German. 
For  the  exception  I  have  good  grounds ;  in- 
deed,  I  do  not   know  why  any   un-Teutonic 
soul  should  ever  wish  to  acquire  the  tongue 
of  the  Fatherland.     In  the  first  place,  it  spoils 
the  expression  of  your  mouth ;  in  the  second 
place,  it  can  only   be  of   use  to  you  in  the 
improbable  event  of  your  desiring  to  hold  con- 
versation with  a  German. 

The   Duddleswells   and   others   have  care 
lessly  asserted  that  during  this  long  march  we 
often  slept  out  in   'he  rain.      That  is  a  vile 
calumny.     In  hopei.  ssly  wet  weather,  the  One- 
eyed  Calender  always  sought  the  shelter  of  a 
tramp's  refuge,  or  took  us  to  one  of  those 
humble  auberges  on  the  outskirts  of  villages, 
where     On   loge  b,  pied   is  scrawled   on   the 
lintel  in  uneven  letters.     It  was  only  on  fine 
nights  that  we  ever  slept  in  the  open ;  even 
then  we  usually  lay  under  some  barn  or  shed, 
or  else  nestled  close  beneath  the  big  stones 
that  supported  a  hayrick. 


104 


Rosalba 


And  my  father,  all  this  time  ?— Ah,  there 
you  put  your  finger  on  a  spot  that  winces  ! 

Remember,  I  was  a  child.     A  child's  head 
has  room  for  but  one  emotion  at  a  time.     That 
emotion,  while  it  lasts,  monopolises  conscious- 
ness.     On  the  day  when  I  left  home,  my  head 
was  filled  with  burning  indignation  against  my 
mother.     1  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that,  just 
at  that   moment,  I  forgot  my  father.     Such 
forgetfulness  is  my  only  excuse— that,  and  my 
age  ;  for  used  not  Miss  Westmacott  to  inform 
me  with  impressive  iteration  that  you  cannot 
put  old  heads  on  young  shoulders  ?     I  never 
thought  of  my  father's  distress  and  alarm  till 
I  reached  Milan,  and  could  no  longer  see  the 
Monti  Berici.     By  that  time,  return  -as  practi- 
cally impossible.     But  the  moment  it  occurred 
to  me,  I  cried  hard  over  it. 

"  Why  dost  thou  cry  ?  "   the  Signora  asked. 

I  told  her. 

She  agreed  with  me  that  to  go  back  was 
out  of  the  question.  She  and  the  One-eyed 
Calender  were  certainly  not  going  back  to 
please  me ;  and  I  could  not  tramp  alone  from 
Milan  to  Vicenza.  Why  not,  as  easily  as  I 
had  run  away  from  home,  you  ask  ?  There, 
dear  respectable   English   reader,  you  show 


I 


The  Log  of  a  Land  Cruise        105 


-Ah,  there 
winces  ! 
:hild's  head 
ime.     That 
s  conscious- 
ne,  my  head 
I  against  my 
ly  that,  just 
ther.     Such 
hat,  and  my 
itt  to  inform 
you  cannot 
-s  ?     I  never 
nd  alarm  till 
nger  see  the 
'ii  vas  practi- 
it  it  occurred 


gnora 


asked. 


go  back  was 
Lhe  One-eyed 
)tng  back  to 
ip  alone  from 
LS  easily  as  I 
ask  ?  There, 
ir,  you  show 


once  more  the  limitations  of  your  respecta- 
bility. Had  you  had  the  mental  advantage 
of  being  a  tramp,  as  I  have  had  it,  you  would 
see  why  at  once.  It  is  easy  to  set  out  from 
home  and  go  where  Fortune  leads  you  ;  she  is 
certain  in  the  end  to  lead  you  somewhere. 
But  to  set  out  with  the  object  of  attaining  a 
definite  point  is  quite  another  matter ;  the 
jade,  in  that  case,  will  surely  guide  your  foot- 
steps to  Patagonia  when  you  are  bound  for 
Kamschatka.  'T  is  Theseus  in  the  labyrinth, 
without  his  clue.  We  all  know  the  difference 
between  trying  to  draw  a  card  at  random  and 
trying  to  draw  four  aces  running. 

When  I  came  to  realise  what  I  had  done,  I 
cried  much  about  my  father ;  and  the  very 
first  money  I  earned  for  myself — you  shall 
hear  of  that  presently — I  spent  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  a  stamp  to  write  to  him.  I  learned 
long  after  from  Mariana  that  he  received  my 
letter,  and  how  much  it  comforted  him.  And 
he  forgave  me,  I  know;  for  when  I  returned 
to  the  Monti  Berici,  I  planted  a  white  rose- 
bush on  my  father's  grave  ;  and  that  white 
rose-bush  blossomed  far  more  luxuriantly  than 
Mariana's  myrtle.  But  this  is  anticipating; 
and  you  are  not  to  suppose  my  dear  father 
dead  until  I  tell  of  it. 


I 


CHAPTER  VII 


I    FIND    MY    VOCATION 


YOU  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  all 
this  time  I  was  dependent  for  bread  on 
the  charity  of  the  One-eyed  Calender  and  the 
Signora  his  wife.  Quite  the  contrary  :  reci- 
procity is  the  soul  of  business.  I  was  at  least 
as  useful  to  my  new  friends  as  they  to  me  ; 
otherwise,  being  of  those  who  will  not  beg,  I 
should  not  have  continued  to  journey  in  their 
company. 

When  the  wandering  Calender  dropped  from 
the  sky  and  invited  me  to  join  his  travelling 
band  of  two,  he  did  it,  I  was  aware  (in  the 
most  literal  sense),  with  a  single  eye  to  his  own 
advantage.  With  the  wisdom  of  this  age,  he 
saw  that  "  there  was  money  in  me."  But  being 
a  prudent  man  in  his  own  line,  he  did  not  at 
once  press  his  advantage ;  he  regarded  me 
from  the  first  as  a  long  investment,  and  waited 


\ 


/er,  that  all 
Dr  bread  on 
:ler  and  the 
rary  :  reci- 
>vas  at  least 
ley  to  me  ; 
not  beg,  I 
ley  in  their 

opped  from 
s  travellinof 
are  (in  the 
;  to  his  own 
his  age,  he 
But  being 
did  not  at 
garded  me 
and  waited 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


107 


for  my  talents  to  develop  naturally.  They  did 
develop  before  long  ;  indeed,  I  think  he  saw  a 
return  for  his  money — or  rather  his  bread  and 
protection — sooner  than  he  expected. 

it  is  my  temperament  to  dance.  Some  elf 
dwells  in  my  limbs  ;  he  moves  as  to  a  tabor. 
And  he  danced  me  on  my  way  from  Vicenza 
to  Paris,  when  I  was  not  engaged  in  straggling 
at  the  rear  of  our  travelling  company. 

The  dancing  took  shape  of  itself.  I  think 
it  was  as  we  trudged  from  Milan  to  Genoa  that 
I  first  discovered  the  trade  value  of  my  antics. 
We  had  stopped  at  Borghetto,  a  small  white 
village  lost  among  the  folds  of  the  Apennines, 
where  we  camped  on  the  open  piazza  near  the 
church.  The  population,  as  usual,  turned  out 
in  force  with  all  its  scissors.  Our  advent 
marked  an  epoch.  While  the  women  and  chil- 
dren stood  by  to  watch  the  shower  of  sparks, 
I  played  about  myself  in  the  dust  of  the 
piazza,  making  dolls,  as  was  my  fashion,  out 
of  sticks  and  rags  which  I  picked  up  in  the 
gutter.  One  of  the  dolls  I  named,  as  usual, 
Romeo,  the  other  Juliet.  In  pure  childish 
spirits  I  began  playing  them  off  against  one 
another,  talking  and  gambolling  as  I  did  so. 
Presently,  one  or  two  of  the  elder  children, 


io8 


Rosalba 


tired  of  the  sparks  that  flew  from  the  wheel, 
turncil  round  to  listen.  Tht^y  made  up  my 
first  auilience.  Kncoura^eil  by  their  interest, 
I  be^ran  my  ^^une  all  over  aj^ain,  out  of  a  j^nrl's 
mere  vanity  at  findinj^  somebody  pay  attention 
to  her  chatter  ;  1  told  them  the  story  of  Ronu'o 
e  Ginlictta,  half  in  recitative,  half  in  pantomime 
and  action.  Sometimes  I  narrated ;  some- 
times I  danced  and  capered  ;  sometimes  I  used 
my  puppets  as  marionettes,  and  spoke  for 
them  like  a  Punch-and-  Uidy  man,  just  as  the 
fancy  seized  me.  By  and  by  I  became  aware 
that  the  elders  too  had  formed  a  ring  around 
me,  and  that  all  Borghetto  was  straining  its 
ears  to  hear  me.  Even  the  One-eyed  Calender 
left  off  his  grind,  grind,  grind,  and  leaned  on 
the  frame  of  his  wheel  to  listen  ;  the  Signora 
bent  forward  and  craned  her  skinny  neck  ;  not 
a  woman  in  the  crowd  but  overflowed  with 
sympathy  for  "  that  poor  Giulietta,"  and  eagerly 
awaited  the  unfolding  of  her  story. 

The  more  I  found  my  audience  listened,  the 
more  eager  and  excited  I  became.  I  poured 
forth  my  tale  as  far  as  I  could  remember  it, 
with  dramatic  accompaniment ;  I  made  my 
fantoccini  talk  and  cry  ;  I  danced  sympatheti- 
cally in  a  ballet  d '  action.     The  women  cried 


I 


I 


\ 


J  thp  wheel, 
lade  up  my 
eir  interest, 
Lit  of  a  j^irl's 
ay  attention 
ry  of  Ronu'o 
1  pantomime 
ted ;  some- 
times I  used 
spoke  for 
just  as  tile 
came  aware 
ring  around 
straining  its 
ed  Calender 
1  leaned  on 
the  Signora 
y  neck  ;  not 
flowed  with 
and  eagerly 

istened,  the 
I  poured 
^member  it, 
[  made  my 
sympatheti- 
omen  cried 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


109 


out  that  Giulietta  was  a  sweet  fancinlla,  and 
that  I  was  a  little  witch  ;  both  which  candid 
expressions  of  opinion  delighted  me.  My  first 
performance  was  an  immense  success,  all  the 
more  because  wholly  improvised  and  unre- 
hearsed. In  that  moment  I  became  aware 
that  I  was  at  heart  an  artist. 

As  soon  as  I  had  finished,  and  fell  back, 
laughing,  showing  my  teeth  with  pride,  the 
One-eyed  Calender  rose  at  once  from  his 
wheel  and  improved  the  occasion.  Wagging 
his  head  grimly,  he  handed  me  the  little  tin 
mug  (embossed  with  the  legend  Bcvi,  cam) 
out  of  which  we  drank  the  water  of  brooks  on 
our  way,  and  motioned  me  to  go  round  with 
it.  I  did  not  hesitate.  TV/a/ was  not  begging. 
I  felt  at  once  it  was  in  essence  payment  for 
an  artistic  exhibition. 

I  carried  the  mug  round,  casting  a  saucy 
triumphant  eye  as  I  went  on  my  queer  little 
audience.  The  village  Avas  poor,  but  its  sym- 
pathies were  awakened.  Hands  fumbled  in 
pockets.  Old  purses  opened.  Centesimi 
poured  in  with  surprising  rapidity.  When  I 
had  tripped  round  the  circle,  casting  a  smile 
and  a  nod  at  each  prospective  giver,  or  drop- 
ping  a    quick    curtsey    to    accompany   each 


no 


Rosalba 


grazie,  as  the  coppers  jingled  on  the  floor  of 
the  tin  mug,  we  counted  out  our  gains  and 
found  I  had  netted  thirteen  soldi.  For  the 
Calender  and  his  wife  thirteen  soldi  clear  was 
a  glittering  Golconda.  The  patron's  one  eye 
glistened.  "  I  told  you  she  would  go  far ! " 
he  murmured  to  his  wife  in  a  tone  of  triumph. 
The  Signora,  v/ho  was  an  acidulous  lady, 
made  a  wry  face  (as  though  her  own  were  not 
wry  enough),  and  muttered  something  in  the 
unknown  tongue  which  she  always  talked  when 
she  did  not  wish  me  to  understand.  But 
though  the  words  were  strange  to  me  and 
conveyed  no  meaning,  I  was  quite  old  enough 
to  catch  at  the  intonation  :  she  was  telling  the 
One-eyed  Calender  not  to  say  too  much  and 
make  the  girl  overproud  of  her  performance. 
Indeed,  the  Signora's  desire  to  avoid  excessive 
praise  had  often  a  deeper  effect  upon  me  than 
her  husband's  frank  recognition  of  my  worth. 
I  saw  in  her  lack-lustre  eye  that  she  was  afraid 
I  might  form  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  own 
value  and  so  slip  through  her  fingers  ;  the  know- 
ledge that  she  thus  desired  to  keep  me  gave  me 
an  effectual  lever  to  use  against  her  in  case  of  in- 
justice. For  it  was  injustice  that  I  dreaded  ; 
not  for  nought  was  I  born  the  daughter  of  the 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


III 


the  floor  of 
r  gains  and 
di.  For  the 
Idi  clear  was 
)n*s  one  eye 
lid  go  far!" 
:  of  triumph, 
dulous  lady, 
wn  were  not 
;hing  in  the 
talked  when 
stand.      But 

to  me  and 
i  old  enough 
ls  telling  the 
o  much  and 
)erformance. 
5id  excessive 
3on  me  than 
f  my  worth, 
e  was  afraid 

of  my  own 
s ;  the  know- 

me  gave  me 
in  case  of  in- 
t  I  dreaded ; 
ghter  of  the 


man  who  with  his  own  right  hand  drove  the 
Austrians  out  of  Italy,  and  who  was  even  then 
engaged  in  plotting  to  upset  the  new  despotism 
of  the  tyrannical  borghesia. 

My  audience  lingered  about  a  little  when  all 
was  over,  to  see  whether  perchance  I  would 
repeat  my  performance ;  but  the  Signora 
whispered  to  me,  "  No  more  to-night,  lest  you 
make  yourself  cheap,  little  one  ! " 

I  recognised  her  wisdom  and  shook  my 
head  waywardly. 

The  audience  murmured  discontent ;  so,  by 
way  of  protest,  I  proceeded  to  put  my  puppets 
to  bed  with  profound  seriousness.  "Poor 
Rom^o  ! "  I  said,  bending  over  him,  "  he  is 
dead.  We  must  bury  him  quietly.  These 
good  people  of  Borghetto  will  not  allow  even 
the  dead  to  sleep  in  peace !  They  want  me  to 
play  the  archangel  Gabriel— toot,  toot,  toot, 
on  a  tin  trumpet— and  bring  him  to  life  again 
with  a  glorious  resurrection.  But  no,  my  poor 
Rom^o ;  I  know  how  you  feel.  You  need  rest 
to-night  after  so  much  emotion  !  " 

The  women  laughed  and  nodded  their  heads. 
"  Is  she  clever,"  they  cried,  "  the  little  one  ! 
She  will  be  an  opera-singer  when  she  grows  up. 
Her  eyes !     Her  movements ! " 


\ 


112 


Rosalba 


"  Play  again  !  Play  us  another  piece  !  " 
several  of  my  new  friends  urged. 

I  rose  and  smiled  sweetly.  "  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,"  I  said,  bobbing  to  them,  "  I,  the 
actors  and  actresses,  am  too  tired  to  re-open 
the  theatre  and  set  another  piece  before  you." 

They  dispersed  unwillingly.  When  they 
had  all  melted  away,  and  we  were  left  to  our- 
selves, I  turned  with  asperity  to  the  One-eyed 
Calender.  "  You  took  my  thirteen  soldi ! "  I 
cried  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  For  he  had 
promptly  pocketed  them. 

"Yes,"  the  Signora  answered,  nodding  her 
head.  *'  We  took  them,  nattiralntente.  Thou 
owest  us  for  arrears  of  board  and  lodging." 

I  reflected  a  moment.  That  was  true.  I  had 
eaten  their  bread  ;  I  had  accepted  their  panel- 
tone.  But  still — thirteen  soldi !  It  was  a 
power  of  money.  I  glanced  at  Rom^o,  tucked 
up  neatly  in  bed  in  his  ragged  tunic.  The 
commercial  spirit  awakened  within  me.  I  was 
not  aware  just  then  that  I  was  fighting  the 
battle  of  the  proletariate  against  the  capitalist, 
like  my  father ;  but  I  felt  my  soul  burn  that 
the  One-eyed  Calender  should  appropriate  the 
whole  of  my  petty  earnings  in  return  for  bare 
board  and  problematical  lodging.    Besides,  this 


ther    piece ! " 

"  Ladies  and 
them,  "  I,  the 
ed  to  re-open 

before  you." 

When   they 

re  left  to  our- 

the  One-eyed 

een  soldi ! "  I 

For    he  had 

,  nodding  her 
mente.     Thou 
d  lodging." 
IS  true.    I  had 
id  \)\^\r  panei- 

!  It  was  a 
i.om^o,  tucked 
i  tunic.  The 
in  me.  I  was 
5  fighting  the 

the  capitalist, 

loul  burn  that 

ppropriate  the 

eturn  for  bare 

Besides,  this 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


"3 


I 


thing  might  grow.     The  Calender  himself  had 
prophesied,  "  She  will  go  far  "  ;  and  I  saw  he 
had  reason.     If  the  people  of  this  insignificant 
village  could  give  me  thirteen  soldi  in  pieces 
of  one  or  two  centesimi  each,  what  might  I 
not  hope  to  earn  in  the  great  rich  cities  ? 
I  struck  for  the  rights  of  labour. 
"  See  here,"  I  said  argumentatively  ;  "  what 
I  have  done  to-night,  that  I  can  do  elsewhere. 
I  can  dance  and  sing,  and  tell  tales  of  mer- 
maids, and  make  wooden  dolls  talk,  and  so 
earn  money      You  may  keep  some  of  it,  to 
buy  me  food  and  all  that ;  but  I  ought  to  touch 
half  for  myself.     That  is  but  bare  justice." 

When  John  Stodmarsh  taught  me  political 
economy  long  after,  I  glowed  with  pride  to 
think  that  from  the  first,  though  firm  for  the 
rights  of  labour,  I  was  quite  prepared  to  be 
just  to  capital. 

My  demand  of  fifty  per  cent,  for  the  toiler, 
however,  made  the  capitalists  tremble  in  their 
torn  shoes.  And  indeed  I  perceive  now  that 
it  was  a  greater  proportion  than  labour  can 
ever  expect  to  earn,  before  the  socialist  millen- 
nium. The  Signora  cried,  "  Nonsense  !  "  I 
could  see  she  was  inexorable.  She  was  for 
giving  me  nothing.    But  the  Calender  inter- 


\ 


114 


Rosalba 


posed.  He  was  a  man  ;  and  I  hope  't  is  no 
treason  to  my  sex  to  admit  that,  in  matters  of 
business,  I  have  found  men  proner  to  compro- 
mise than  women. 

"Thou  art  right,"  he  said  to  me  slowly, 
after  a  brief  marital  altercation  with  the  Sig- 
nora  in  the  unknown  language.  "  I  can  see  it 
with  one  eye.  Thou  sayest  well  that  thou 
oughtest  to  touch  something.  Still,  we  pay  for 
thy  food,  and  we  secure  thee  lodging " 

"  Where  necessary,"  I  put  in  gravely. 

He  winced.  "Where  necessary,"  he  went 
on,  acceptir  ^  the  correction.  "  For  that,  we 
naturally  deserve  to  be  recouped.  We  took 
thee  as  a  fellow-wayfarer,  expecting  to  recoup 
ourselves.  This  is  a  world,  reflect,  Rosalba, 
of  nothing  for  nothing.  But  we  acknowledge 
thy  claim  to  a  share,  if  this  luck  should  hold. 
In  that  case" — he  put  his  head  on  one  side, 
keeping  it  as  straight  for  the  nonce  as  St.  Vitus 
would  permit,  and  screwed  his  face  up  insinuat- 
ingly— "in  that  case,  we  would  allow  thee  one 
sou  in  te.i  on  all  thou  earnest."  He  stared  at 
me  hard.     "  I  call  the  offer  liberality." 

One  sou  in  ten  !  My  gorge  rose  at  it.  Ten 
per  cent,  alone  as  the  miserable  pittance  offered 
to  labour  !     (I  did  not  know  at  the  time  it  was 


t 


hope  't  is  no 
n  matters  of 
r  to  compro- 

I  me  slowly, 
vith  the  Sig- 
'  I  can  see  it 
:11  that  thou 
11,  we  pay  for 

:mg 

ravely. 

ry,"  he  went 
For  that,  we 
1.  We  took 
ng  to  recoup 
ect,  Rosalba, 
acknowledge 
should  hold, 
on  one  side, 
e  as  St.  Vitus 
e  up  insinuat- 
ilow  thee  one 
He  stared  at 
.lity." 

ie  at  it.  Ten 
ttance  offered 
le  time  it  was 

r 


I  Find  my  Vocation  115 

ten  per  cent,  but  I  resisted  instinctively  the 
aggression  of  the  capitalist.)  "Let  us  be 
reasonable,"  I  said,  sitting  down  and  facing  him. 

I  allow  that  you  have  fed  me,  and  sometimes 
even  housed  me  ;  but  my  food  and  lodging  are 
net  expensive.  I  give  you  my  lowest  terms. 
One  soldo  m  five !  Come  ;  't  is  an  ultimatum  ' " 
1  did  not  quite  know  what  an  ultimatum  might 
be,  but  I  knew  it  was  the  sort  of  proposal  my 
father  had  flung  at  the  Austrian  Emperor's 
head,  and  that  after  he  had  once  launched  an 
ultimatum  nobody  ever  said  anything  further 

"  One  soldo  in  five  ?  But  't  is  ruin.  Why 
what  wouldst  thou  do  with  it  ?  " 

I  tossed  my  head.  "My  affair!  One  soldo 
in  five !     An  ultimatum.     Take  it-or  leave 

The  Signora  interposed.  She  saw  the  One- 
eyed  Calender  visibly  waver.  She  tried  a 
subterfuge.  "  One  soldo  in  ten,  up  to  ten  soldi  ; 
one  in  five  for  all  you  earn  after." 

I  stamped  my  foot.  "  I  have  spoken  my 
ultimatum."  I  cried.  «  One  in  five-or  nothing. 
I  am  free  to  leave  you.  How  often  should  I 
ever  earn  more  than  ten  ?  But  that  is  nr  ^  the 
point.  You  have  heard  my  terms.  An  ulti- 
matum is  an  ultimatum." 


s 


.H 


ii6 


Rosalba 


The  One-eyed  Calender  put  his  left  thumb 
to  his  teeth  and  stared  at  me  fixedly.  Then 
he  spoke  again  in  the  unknown  tongue  to  the 
Signora.  She  gave  way  sullenly,  letting  her 
hands  drop  by  her  side.  From  that  day 
fortu,  the  One-eyed  Calender  respected  me 
enormously. 

And,  indeed,  I  am  not  built  of  the  stuff  that 
meekly  yields  to  the  tyranny  of  capital.  I 
stood  up  for  my  rights  from  the  first.  I  had 
left  my  comfortable  and  luxurious  home — the 
well-provided  home  of  a  landed  proprietor  on 
the  Monti  Berici — for  freedom's  sake,  and 
voluntarily  embraced  the  hard  life  of  the  road, 
that  I  might  be  my  own  mistress.  And  was  I 
then  to  knuckle  down  before  arrogant  capital- 
ism? Was  this  one-eyed  Rothschild  in  a 
tattered  shirt  and  a  small  way  of  business  to 
walk  over  me  roughshod  (in  his  second-hand 
boots),  simply  because  he  had  managed  to 
possess  himself  of  the  reserve-fund  of  food- 
stuffs in  the  shape  of  panettone,  and  the 
instrument  of  production  in  his  strident  grind- 
ing-wheel  ?  Ten  thousand  times  no !  The 
blood  of  the  Lupari  rose  against  such 
oppression. 

I  did  not  yet  know  how  much  or  how  little 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


117 


lis  left  thumb 
xedly.  Then 
tongue  to  the 
ly,  letting  her 
om  that  day 
respected   me 

the  stuff  that 
of  capital.  I 
e  first.  I  had 
us  home — the 

proprietor  on 
n's  sake,  and 
fe  of  the  road, 
i.  And  was  I 
rogant  capital- 
>thschild  in  a 
of  business  to 
s  second-hand 
i  managed  to 
fund  of  food- 
*one,  and  the 
strident  grind- 
les   no !      The 

against     such 

h  or  how  little 


I  might  be  likely  to  earn  by  my  artistic  energies  ; 
but  from  the  very  first  night  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  this — that  what  I  earned  should  be 
my  own,  not  any  complexion  of  capitalist's.  I 
fought  for  a  principle.  The  principle  would 
be  the  same  if  I  were  Patti  and  he  the 
impresario  of  some  famous  opera-house. 

So  we  went  on  our  way  towards  Paris,  re- 
joicing— and  also  sorrowing,  just  as  the  mood 
and  the  market  took  us.  On,  past  white  towns 
that  jut  on  promontories  ;  on,  past  bays  of  oily 
sea,  zoned  with  belts  of  darker  and  lighter  blue 
like  watered  silk  ;  on,  up  the  dry  rocks  that 
hem  in  the  Rh6ne  valley.  At  first,  I  aspired 
to  no  more  than  such  unpremeditated  dramatic 
exhibitions — mere  spontaneous  play  of  a  child 
with  her  puppets.  But  as  time  went  on,  and 
I  began  to  earn  more,  I  took  greater  pains 
with  the  study  of  my  monologue,  and  also  in- 
cidentally with  my  scenery  and  dresses.  At 
some  places  in  Provence  we  made  as  much  as 
twenty  or  thirty  sous  in  a  day  ;  and  then  it  be- 
came apparent  that,  as  a  commercial  specula- 
tion, it  was  worth  our  while  to  spend  a  trifle 
on  tinsel  and  spangles,  both  for  myself  and  my 
dollies.  Ferdinand  had  now  slashed  sleeves 
to  his  doublet,  and  Miranda  was  richly  dight 


ii8 


Rosalba 


in  a  rag  of  white  satin — only  three  sous  the  tri- 
angular remnant,  cut  on  the  bias  !  Bit  by  bit 
the  fantastic  performance  grew,  till,  as  we 
reached  the  centre  of  France,  I  had  developed 
into  a  little  impromptu  actress,  delivering 
monologues  half  remembered  from  books,  half 
of  my  own  composition,  and  interspersed  with 
puppet-shows  and  appropriate  dances.  I  man- 
aged it  all  out  of  my  own  head,  without  even 
imagining  myself  to  be  doing  anything  out  of 
the  common. 

Another  consequence  was,  that  the  Calen- 
der's wife  found  it  worth  her  while  to  dress 
me  properly.  The  Signora  was  herself  a  slat- 
tern, in  that  advanced  stage  of  dissolution 
where  pins  have  wholly  superseded  buttons; 
but  she  saw  that  it  paid  to  keep  me  tidy.  My 
Italian  costume  contributed  not  a  little  to  the 
success  of  the  entertainment ;  people  love  that 
slight  flavour  of  the  alien  and  the  exotic  which 
raises  art  above  the  level  of  the  commonplace. 
So,  as  our  budget  swelled,  the  Calender's  wife 
took  care  to  prank  me  out  in  a  somewhat  the- 
atrical peasant  gd^h,  which  recalled,  I  must 
confess,  the  Roman  Campagna  rather  than  my 
own  Venetian  mainland.  This  helped  to  pre- 
serve my  self-respect ;   for   I   kept  my  head 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


119 


e  sous  the  tri- 
!  Bit  by  bit 
^  till,  as  we 
ad  developed 
is,  delivering 
m  books,  half 
rspersed  with 
ices.  I  man- 
without  even 
^thing  out  of 

it  the  Calen- 
hile  to  dress 
lerself  a  slat- 
f  dissolution 
ded  buttons ; 
ne  tidy.  My 
I  little  to  the 
)ple  love  that 
exotic  which 
ommonplace. 
ilender's  wife 
Dmewhat  the- 
illed,  I  must 
ther  than  my 
elped  to  pre- 
:pt  my  head 


up.  However  ill  my  padrone  and  his  wife 
might  be  attired,  I  at  least  went  flashing 
through  the  towns  of  Provence  in  scarlet 
and  orange. 

At  the  outset,  too,  I  trusted  for  my  plots  to 
memory.     But  in  time  I  began  to  find  my  small 
repertory  pall ;    besides,    I    forgot   more   and 
more  the  original  books,  and  was  thrown  more 
and  more   on   my  inventive   faculty.      I    am 
afraid  the  hash  I  made  of  The  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice would  have  turned  Sir  Henry  Irving's  hair 
prematurely  grey,  could  he  only  have  heard  it. 
I  was  still  mainly  dependent  for  subjects  on 
Shakespeare,  who,  strange  to  say,  knew  what 
drama  was  quite  as  well  as  I   did.     I   tried 
Dante,  indeed,  but  found  him  wanting :  Dante 
is  not  dramatic.    The  Thousand  and  One  Nights 
supplied  me  with  a  play  or  two— notably  Alad- 
din, and  to  a  less  degree  Ali  Baba— but  the 
mass  of  the  stories  were  caviare  to  the  general. 
The  name  of  Allah  puzzled  my  hearers ;  and 
they  were  clearly  at  sea  as  to  viziers  and  der- 
vishes.    These  exotic  terms,  though  I  did  not 
understand  them,  had  given  me  no  trouble — I 
suppose  I  was   more  imaginative;   but  they 
sufficed  to  render  the  Moslem  tales  unpalat- 
able to  the  ordinary  French  villager.     I  was 


L 


ill  I 


I20 


Rosalba 


I 


quick  to  feel  the  pulse  of  my  audiences.  When 
I  cauj^jht  them  yawning,  I  never  repeated  the 
proved  failure. 

As  a  rule,  however,  they  were  sympathy  it- 
self. I  had  a  little  introductory  phrase  which 
generally  put  us  on  the  best  of  terms  at  the 
outset.  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  I  would  be- 
gin, "  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  presenting  to 
you  the  celebrated  and  fascinating  drama  of 
The  Tempest ;  the  part  of  Ferdinand  " — I  held 
h'm  up — "  by  Signor  Giovanni  Fantocchino  ; 
the  part  of  Miranda" — I  tapped  my  chest — 
"  by  Signorina  Rosalba  Lupari.  The  other 
characters  " — I  tapped  myself  again — "  by  the 
whole  strength  of  the  company."  That  always 
made  them  smile.  They  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  the  thing,  and  wc  were  friends  imme- 
diately. 

When  we  loitered  awhile  in  great  towns  like 
Marseilles,  Avignon,  Lyons,  Dijon,  I  lingered 
round  the  book-stalls  at  the  street  corners,  and 
ventured  to  turn  over  the  paper-covered  vol- 
umes, especially  those  at  twenty  centimes. 
The  stall-keepers  proved  kindly  as  a  rule ;  my 
Italian  costume  and  my  evident  eagerness 
piqued  their  curiosity.  "  Is  the  droil,  the  lit- 
tle  dancing-girl  ? "    they  asked  one   another. 


tices.    When 
repeated  the 

sympathy  it- 

jhrase  which 

;ernis  at  the 

I  would  be- 

)resenting  to 

1^  drama  of 

ind  " — I  held 

'^antocchino ; 

my  chest — 

The  other 

lin — "  by  the 

That  always 

■ed  into   the 

riends  imme- 

at  towns  like 
n,  I  lingered 
corners,  and 
-covered  vol- 
ty  centimes, 
s  a  rule  ;  my 
It  eagerness 
droil,  the  lit- 
3ne   another. 


I 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


121 


One  of  them  gave  me  a  book  ;  't  was  at  Orange  ; 
it  was  called  (Euvns  Dramali<]ucs  dc  Moiibre. 
That  was  a  Talk-Book,  something  like  my 
I'lnglish  one,  but  not  quite  so  well  suited  for 
my  personal  purpose — less  romantic  and  flexi- 
ble. It  lacked  the  element  of  Puck  and  Ariel. 
Nevertheless,  I  got  good  from  it,  and  added  to 
my  repertory  the  story  of  Sganarelle. 

Some  books  I  read  through,  more  or  less, 
without  buying  them.  Thus  I  learned  in  a 
certain  whirling  way  the  tale  of  Consuelo  and 
that  of  the  Tour  de  Nesle.  Other  books  1 
bought  with  my  own  hoarded  sous — they  call 
soldi  "sous"  in  France,  and  centesimi  "cen- 
times." One  was  a  glorious  romance,  by 
name  Lcs  Trots  Moiisquetaires ;  another,  less 
useful,  but  which  I  loved  far  better,  was  a  vol- 
ume of  poems  by  Alfred  de  iViusset.  English 
and  Italian  books  were  particularly  cheap  ;  a 
book-stall  keeper  at  Lyons,  who  heard  me  sing 
and  saw  me  dance,  gave  me,  instead  of  cop- 
pers, a  volume  of  curious  songs  called  Sonnets 
by  one  Petrarca,  and  the  Poetical  Works  jf 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  was  because  English  and  Italian  were  my 
two  mother  tongues,  but  I  loved  those  two 
books  better   than   anything   I    ever   :-ead  in 


123 


Rosalba 


I 


I'Vench.     I  learned  them  by  heart.     They  live 
with  me  always. 

Two  other  English  books  I  likewise  ac- 
quired, and  these  helped  me  greatly.  One 
was  given  me  outright  by  a  book-stall  man, 
who  saw  me  devouring  it  with  eager  eyes  on 
his  stall ;  it  was  called  Kcnilworlh,  and  was 
written  by  a  certain  Sir  Walter  Scott  Bart.  I 
admired  that  man  Bart  immensely— admired 
him  more,  indeed,  than  my  maturer  taste  ap- 
proves to-day ;  and  I  made  a  little  tragedy  for 
my  puppets  out  of  Amy  Robsart's  fate,  which 
I  still  believe  was  not  wholly  devoid  of  rude 
dramatic  merit. 

The  second  book  came  to  me  in  this  fashion. 
I  was  playing  on  the  Grande  Place  at  a  Rhdne 
town,  whose  name  escapes  me,  and  had  made 
my  usual  introduction,  in  its  French  form— 
"Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  representing  before  you  this  even- 
ing the  famous  and  entertaining  comedy  of 
The  M-rchant  of  Venice.  The  part  of  Shylock 
the  Jew,  in  this  admirable  work,  will  be  sus- 
tained by  M.  Jean  Marionette  "—I  held  him 
up  and  dandled  him ;  "  the  part  of  Portia  by 
Mademoiselle  Rosalba  Lupari,  formerly  of  the 
Royal    Italian    Opera,   and  of    the  principal 


; 


/ 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


123 


They  live 

likewise  ac- 
atly.  One 
t-stall  man, 
^er  eyes  on 
hy  and  was 
)tt  Bart.  I 
y^ — admired 
:r  taste  ap- 
tragedy  for 
fate,  which 
)id  of  rude 

his  fashion, 
at  a  Rhdne 
I  had  made 
ich  form — 
have   the 
this  even- 
comedy  of 
of  Shylock 
kvill  be  sus- 
I  held  him 
Portia  by 
lerly  of  the 
I  principal 


theatres  on  the  highroads  of  Italy."  As  I 
spoke,  I  saw  a  bland  -  faced,  stout,  sweet- 
tempered-looking  old  gentleman  attracted  by 
my  performance.  He  lounged  up,  and  listened, 
sedately  happy.  He  was  one  of  a  class  higher 
than  those  who  ordinarily  patronisea  me — 
I  knew  him  by  his  black  coat  and  loose  black 
tie  for  one  of  those  hateful  bourgeois.  But  he 
stood  long  and  smiled  a  paternal  smile  at  all 
my  sallie.s.  His  presence  inspired  me  :  I  was 
brighter  than  my  wont.  When  I  had  finished, 
he  laid  his  hand  on  my  head  and  beamed  on 
me  charmingly. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  in  an  exquisitely  soft 
and  musical  voice,  "thou  wilt  go  far.  How 
didst  thou  learn  Shakespeare  ?  " 

"Is  that  Shakespeare,  monsieur?"  I  an- 
swered, blushing. 

"Ay,  marry,  is  it?"  he  replied  in  English, 
with  a  marked  foreign  accent.  "  Where  did 
you  read  it  ?  " 

I  told  hiin  my  history.  "But  I  have  for- 
gotten much  of  the  words  as  they  ran  in  the 
book,"  I  continued  sadly.  "  I  remember  for  the 
most  part  the  story  only." 

He  pressed  his  kindly  hand  on  my  head 
once  more.     It  was  a  large  soft  hand.     "  We 


124 


Rosalba 


shall  remedy  that,  my  child,"  he  answered, 
with  a  delicious  intonation.  "  Come  this 
way  with  me."  There  was  a  caress  in  his 
"  Vtens  id/" 

He  led  me  to  a  shop  and  bought  me  a 
brand-new  copy,  well  printed,  and  stoutly 
bound.  "  A  pen,  Je  votes  prie"  he  said,  and, 
leaning  over,  wrote  his  name  and  mine  in  it. 
His  writing  was  small  and  daintily  beautiful. 
"  There,  little  one,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  me. 
"  Thou  wilt  he  famous  some  ''  y.  When  thou 
art,  remember,  I  beg  of  thee,  that  the  snuffy  old 
gentleman  who  gave  thee  this  prophesied  thy 
greatness." 

I  looked  at  the  inscription  : 

"  A  Mademoiselle  Rosalba  Lupari, 

Enfant,  mats  artiste, 
Hommage  prophdtique  d'un  vieillard, 

Ernest  Renan." 


I  seized  the  old  gentleman's  hand  and  kissed 
it  with  effusion  many  times  over.  Only  years 
after  did  I  come  to  know  the  real  value  of 
that  gift.  I  possess  it  still,  and  naturally 
number  it  among  my  most  cherished  treasures. 


I  Find  my  Vocation 


125 


answered, 
Come  this 
ess   in   his 

jght  me  a 
nd  stoutly 
said,  and, 
mine  in  it. 
r  beautiful, 
g  it  to  me. 
When  thou 
;  snuffy  old 
jhesied  thy 


,UPARI, 

Ulard, 
Ren  AN." 

1  and  kissed 
Only  years 
al  value  of 
i  naturally 
d  treasures. 


But  even  then  the  true  French  politeness  of 
the  one  word  "  Mademoiselle  "  went  home  to  my 
heart.     He  saw  I  was  no  beggar. 

This  episode  may  lead  you  rashly  to  suppose 
that  I  am  the  famous  Signorina  Lupari,  the 
renowned  singer.  There,  you  guess  too  hastily. 
It  is  Mariana  who —  But  you  shall  hear  in 
the  sequel. 

Thus  I  owned  a  Shakespeare  again,  and 
was  enabled  to  enlar^'e  and  enrich  my  reper- 
toire by  many  new  plots  and  many  new  epi- 
sodes. Of  course  I  altered  and  adapted  them 
all  to  my  own  fashion.  What  suits  the  Lyceum 
does  not  necessarily  suit  a  one-child  play  with 
dances  and  puppets. 

I  shall  only  add  a  single  point  further  about 
this  phase  of  my  existence.  Of  course  I  was 
mistaken  in  supposing  that  we  should  make 
more  in  the  great  rich  towns  than  in  the 
scattered  villages.  The  great  rich  towns  had 
already  their  theatres,  their  Alcazars,  their 
cafds  cliantants ;  they  despised  my  poor  little 
self-taught  exhibitions.  But  the  smaller  the 
village,  the  more  I  was  appreciated,  especially 
in  warm  Provence  and  warm  Liguria.  The 
land  of  the  troubadours  has  not  yet  forgotten 
the   echoing  tradition   of   spontaneous   song. 


126 


Rosalba 


It  loves  the  improvisatore.  There,  and  there 
alone,  we  have  still  peasant  poets.  The  vol- 
canic soul  of  the  lava-hills  makes  Provence  a 
Bacchante.  She  understood  my  native  wood- 
notes  wild  as  Paris  and  London  could  never 
understand  them.  To  this  day,  I  c?».n  hold 
spellbound  a  group  of  children  on  my  Italian 
hills  with  what  critical  London  would  coldly 
describe  as  "  an  intensely  feeble  and  ama- 
teurish performance." 

Often  in  our  wanderings  we  passed  a  church. 
I  would  drop  in  at  times  and  let  fall  a  prayer 
to  Our  Lady  or  the  dear  Saints.  Not  for  my 
own  welfare.  I  do  not  think  I  troubled  my- 
self much  about  the  state  of  my  soul — it  was 
a  gay,  flighty,  happy-go-lucky  little  soul — but 
I  did  pray  that  I  m'ght  live  to  see  once  mora 
my  dear  father. 


;,  and  there 
.  The  vol- 
Provence  a 
ative  wood- 
could  never 
I  C3.n  hold 
I  my  Italian 
ould  coldly 
:   and  ama- 

ed  a  church, 
all  a  prayer 
Not  for  my 
oubled  my- 
>oul — it  was 
e  soul — but 
;  once  mor^ 


CHAPTER  VIII 

1   CHANGE   MASTERS 

AS  I  increased  in  commercial  value  to  the 
One-eyed  Calender,  I  could  note  that 
he  grew  more  and  more  jealous  of  keeping 
me.  If  his  brother-tramps  seemed  to  pay  me 
attentions,  he  hung  nervously  near,  and  called 
me  off  whenever  he  thought  they  might  snatch 
a  chance  of  talking  alone  with  me. 

For  myself,  I  knew  my  worth  (as  an  article 
of  commerce)  and  used  it  for  a  lever  to  pre- 
vent what  I  most  hated— injustice. 

Once,  as  we  were   approaching    Paris,  the 
Calender  was  harsh  to  me.     I  had  done  some 
small  thing  awkwardly.     "  Goose  !  "  he  cried 
seizing  my  arm  hard. 

"  Take  care  ! "  I  said,  shaking  him  off,  with 
flashing  eyes.  "  I  lay  the  golden  eggs.  Be- 
ware of  killing  me  ! " 

"  I  do  not  think  to  kill  thee,"  he  answered. 

127 


128 


Rosalba 


"  Or  driving  me  away — which  comes  to  the 
same  thing,"  I  added. 

"Thou  art  too  proud,  child.  Whatwouldst 
do  if  thou  shouldst  leave  us  ?" 

"  My  affair  once  more,"  I  replied.  "  I  can 
take  care  of  myself.  I  came  to  you  of  my 
own  free  will ;  of  my  own  free  will  I  can  equally 
quit  you.     What  /  came  for  was — freedom." 

He  looked  at  me  curiously.  "  The  child 
grows  too  wise,"  he  muttered  to  his  wife.  "  She 
waxes  faster  in  wisdom  than  in  stature." 

At  last  we  reached  Paris — garish,  wonder- 
ful, coquettish  Paris.  From  afar  the  tawny 
glare  of  electric  lights,  reflected  on  the  sky 
above  a  dusty  road,  announced  its  neighbour- 
hood. We  straggled  in,  over  miles  upon  miles 
of  suburban  pavement,  m.ore  footsore  than 
usual.  Paris  needed  us  not.  Her  scissors 
were  all  sharp,  her  amusements  ready-made. 
What  should  such  as  we  do  in  the  capital  of 
civilisation  ? 

We  stayed  but  three  days.  In  those  three 
days  a  new  situation  developed  itself. 

We  had  taken  up  our  abode  in  a  tramps' 
lodging-house  in  the  Montmartre  quarter, 
specially  patronised  by  Italians.  Its  squalor 
was  unspeakable.     On  the  last  day  of  our  stay, 


I  Change  Masters 


129 


comes  to  the 

iVhatwouldst 

led.  "  I  can 
3  you  of   my 

I  can  equally 
— freedom." 

"The  child 
lis  wife.  "She 
ature." 

Irish,  wonder- 
ir  the  tawny 
I  on  the  sky 
its  neighbour- 
les  upon  miles 
footsore  than 

Her  scissors 
>  ready-made, 
the  capital  of 

[n  those  three 

tself. 

i  in  a  tramps' 

irtre    quarter, 

.     Its  squalor 

lay  of  our  stay, 


the  Calender  slouched  in — without  the  Signora. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  her  ?  "  I  asked, 
looking  up  from  my  polenta. 

He  waggled  his  head,  between  the  spasms 
of  St.  Vitus,  expanded  both  arms,  with  hands 
palm  outward,  and  gasped  out  feebly,  "  How 
should  I  know?  I  never  expect  to  see  her. 
Henceforth,  thou  and  I  must  travel  the  world, 
alone,  together." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  answered,  for  I  was  nearly 
fourteen,  and  had  a  clear  idea  what  the  world 
was  made  of.  "  Without  the  Signora,  it  is  not 
convenable  for  me  to  remain  with  you  one  day 
longer." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  helpless 
air.  "  She  is  gone,"  he  repeated,  endeavour- 
ing to  keep  his  head  still,  so  as  to  look  im- 
pressive.    "  I  never  again  expect  to  see  her." 

What  had  really  happened  to  her  I  never 
knew.  I  had  various  surmises.  Perhaps  they 
had  merely  quarrelled  ;  perhaps  he  had  mur- 
dered her  and  thrown  her  into  the  Seine; 
perhaps  she  had  gone  off,  a  squalid  Hdloise, 
with  some  more  squalid  Abelard  ;  perhaps  she 
had  managed  to  provoke  our  constant  enemies, 
the  police,  and  he  (like  a  man)  had  saved  him- 
self by  deserting  her.     But,  at  any  rate,  she 


I30 


Rosalba 


was  gone.  With  that  patent  element  of  the 
problem  I  had  most  to  concern  myself. 

I  acted  promptly.  "In  that  case,"  I  said, 
"we  part — this  evening  ! " 

"  You  mean  it,  Rosalba  ?  " 

"  But,  certainly." 

To  my  immense  astonishment,  the  One- 
eyed  Calender  did  the  last  thing  I  should  have 
expected  of  him — burst  into  tears,  and  rocked 
himself  to  and  fro.  "You  will  not  desert  a 
poor  old  man,  carina,  in  his  hour  of  trouble  !" 

I  was  adamant.     "  Nothing  else  is  possible." 

Our  temporary  neighbours  crowded  round, 
seeing  the  chance  of  a  squabble,  perhaps  a 
fight — which,  next  to  a  funeral,  is  the  chief 
public  amusement  in  a  tramps'  lodging-house. 
Some  of  them  began  to  condole.  One,  who 
was  an  organ-grinder,  with  a  villainous  full-fed 
face  and  a  stubby  black  ring  of  beard  an  eighth 
of  an  inch  long,  rough  and  razorable — a  more 
practical  soul — came  forward  with  an  offer. 
He  diffused  a  delicate  perfume  of  garlic.  I 
had  nicknamed  him  mentally  (as  a  reminiscence 
of  Macbeth)  the  First  Murderer. 

"  The  girl  can  dance,"  he  said,  eyeing  me 
sideways.  "  A  dancer  goes  better  with  grind- 
ing music  than  with  grinding  scissors.     And  I 


I  Change  Masters 


131 


nent  of  the 

'self. 

ise,"  I  said, 


:,  the  One- 
should  have 
,  and  rocked 
ot  desert  a 
»f  trouble!" 
is  possible." 
vded  round, 
,  perhaps  a 
is  the  chief 
Iging-house. 
One,  who 
nous  full-fed 
.rd  an  eighth 
t)le — a  more 
h  an  offer. 
»f  garlic.  I 
eminiscence 

eyeing  me 
•  with  grind- 
ors.     And  I 


have  a  wife — a  fact  which  will  meet  the  Signor- 
ina's  delicate  scruples.  I  will  take  her  off 
your  hands.  How  much  do  you  want  for  her  ? 
Quanta  volctc — (juanto  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  slave,"  I  murmured,  drawing 
back  half  angrily. 

The  One-eyed  Calender  wiped  his  finger 
across  his  mouth,  as  an  aid  to  reflection.  He 
calculated  offhand  the  net  value  of  a  recalci- 
trant companion  who  declined  to  accompany 
him,  and  arrived  at  a  properly  modest  figure. 
"  She  is  zaor//t  twenty  francs,"  he  said,  eyeing 
me  as  one  eyes  a  chicken  for  sale  ;  "  but " — 
with  a  generous  recklessnt  — "  you  can  have 
her  for  fifteen." 

I  made  no  comment. 

They  higgled  over  me  for  some  t'-.  :.,  the 
vendor  dwelling  much  on  my  artistic  accom- 
plishments and  my  knowledge  of  English ;  the 
purchaser  admitting  that  he  was  bound  for 
England,  but  ungallantly  disparaging  my  other 
merits. 

"  Now,  thirteen  francs  !  "  he  said  insinuat- 
ingly, as  if  it  were  a  Dutch  auction.  "  Come, 
come  !  she  is  leaving  you." 

"  Fifteen.     Speaks  English." 

"  Thirteen,  fifty.     A  mere  street-singer  ! " 


t 

% 


132 


Rosalba 


"  Fifteen.  Good  eyelashes,  and  earns 
plenty  ! " 

At  last  they  settled  terms  on  the  basis  of  a 
compromise — fourteen  francs  down,  and  a 
glass  of  absinthe. 

I  bided  my  time.  When  all  was  arranged, 
and  the  money  about  to  change  hands  in  solid 
bronze  (for  silver  was  rare  with  us)  I  interposed 
quietly,  "  Seven  francs  goes  to  me,  please  ! " 

"And  why?"  they  both  exclaimed,  as- 
tonished. 

"  I  am  not  yours  to  buy  and  sell.  I  object 
to  this  transaction.  I  will  go  with  the  Signore 
organ-grinder,  because  he  has  a  lady  of  his 
own,  and  because  I  see  nothing  else  now  pos- 
sible. But  if  he  pays  you  fourteen  francs  for 
me,  I  claim  half  of  it.  No  slavery !  Rdpub- 
lique  franfaise :  liberty,  dgaliti,  fraternity/ 
Otherwise  I  upset  your  coach  altogether  by 
declining  to  travel  with  him." 

The  One-eyed  Calender  clasped  his  hands 
and  made  piteous  appeals  to  Our  Lady,  the 
Saints,  and  my  personal  feelings.  I  took  no 
heed  of  them.  A  duenna  is  a  duenna,  so 
I  was  ready  for  the  arrangement;  but  why 
should  I  be  trafficked  like  a  Cuban  negress — 
I,  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  had  freed 


and    earns 

lie  basis  of  a 
}wn,    and  a 

IS  arranged, 
inds  in  solid 
I  interposed 
,  please ! " 
claimed,    as- 

11.  I  object 
the  Signore 
lady  of  his 
Ise  now  pos- 
:n  francs  for 
ry !  Rdpub- 
fraternity  ! 
together  by 

d  his  hands 
ir  Lady,  the 
I  took  no 
duenna,  so 
t ;  but  why 
in  negress — 
)   had  freed 


I  Change  Masters 


133 


Italy  ?     In  the  end  the  vendor  gave  in  and  I 
got  my  money. 

"  But  you  engage  to  remain  with  me,"  the 
First  Murderer  added  as  an  afterthought. 

I  eyed  him  suspiciously.  His  face  was  by 
no  means  reassuring.  '' Ma  che  !  ma  che  !  I 
make  no  promise.  You  were  willing  to  buy 
me  on  chance  from  my  padrone,  who  has  no 
kind  of  claim  to  me  ;  and  you  must  abide  the 
result.  If  you  suit  me,  I  stop  with  you  ;  if  you 
fail  to  please  me — tra-la-la  /  la-ra  /  zint  bourn  f 
I  go  elsewhere. " 

The  First  Murderer  glanced  significantly  at 
the  One-eyed  Calender.  The  One-eyed  Cal- 
ender shrugged  his  shoulders.  I  guessed  what 
they  meant.  The  one  said  with  his  eyebrows, 
"  A  wise  man  would  have  stopped  this  earlier"  ; 
the  other  said  with  his  open  palms,  "  'T  is  less 
easy  than  it  seems  to  curb  the  young  rebel." 

"  Then  thou  wilt  start  with  us  to-morrow  ?" 
the  First  Murderer  observed  a  little  later,  after 
further  conference  with  my  recent  owner. 

The  old  Eve  asserted  herself  within  me. 
"  Not  if  you  thou  me,"  I  answered  quietly  ;  for 
I  knew  the  respect  due  to  the  daughter  of  so 
grand  a  gentleman  as  .  /.  ex-waiter  at  Gatti's. 
"It  mu't  be   you  at   the   very  least."      We 


'34 


Rosalba 


Italians,  I  may  say  in  explanation,  possess 
four  delicate  j^Taciations  of  courtesy  in  our 
personal  pronouns  ;  they  vary  from  thou,  the 
lowest,  through  you  and  thcyy  the  middle  terms, 
to  she,  the  most  honorific  of  all,  which  is  short 
for  **  Your  Excellency."  I  had  debated  at  first 
whether  I  siiould  not  compel  my  new  padrone 
to  call  m»,  lei,  but  I  decided  at  last  that  for  the 
present  voi  would  meet  the  exigencies  of  the 
situation.  I  was  going  up  gradually.  When 
the  One-eyed  Calender  first  thoud  me,  I  was 
still  a  child,  and  children  are  always  thou ;  now, 
I  was  a  girl  of  nearly  fourteen,  and  exacted 
my  due  from  the  First  Murderer. 

He  made  a  wry  face.  "  I  have  not  bought 
much  for  my  fourteen  francs,"  he  muttered. 
"  But  still — we  shall  see  .  .  .  when  I  get 
her  to  England  ! " 

His  face  was  black  ;  he  somehow  looked 
like  a  huge  dark  spider  :  but  his  threats  did 
not  disturb  me.  Once  in  England,  I  knew  I 
had  the  English  tongue,  while  he  would  be 
merely  an  Italian  organ-grinder. 

'T  is  in  the  blood  of  the  Lupari  to  fear  dis- 
grace, and  fear  nought  else. 

Next  day  we  set  out  from  Paris,  along  the 
Great  North  Road,  for  Amiens  and  England. 


on,  possess 
:esy  in  our 
m  thou,  the 
iddle  terms, 
jich  is  short 
)ated  at  first 
lew  padrone 
that  for  the 
ncies  of  the 
illy.  When 
d  me,  I  was 
thou;  now, 
ind  exacted 

not  bought 

e  muttered. 

when  I  get 

how  looked 

threats  did 

id,  I  knew  I 

e  would  be 

i  to  fear  dis- 

is,  along  the 
id  England. 


I  Change  Masters 


'35 


I  do  not  purpose  to  trouble  you  with  the 
details  of  my  career  in  the  First  Murderer's 
company  :  't  was  a  transient  episode ;  though 
my  new  master  was  "  the  very  devil  incarna- 
tion " — a  Bluebeard,  I  thought,  with  a  touch 
of  Don  Juan.  We  made  our  way  gradually 
by  Amiens  and  Abbeville  to  Boulogne  ;  thence 
we  took  the  night  boat,  third  class,  to  Folke- 
stone. 

From  the  coast  it  was  the  First  Murderer's 
plan  to  grind  his  way  to  London  by  slow 
stages  through  the  villages  of  the  highroad. 
But  here,  fate  turned  on  me.  In  Picardy  I 
had  found  my  audiences  somewhat  smaller 
than  in  the  South,  and  decidedly  more  nig- 
gardly of  small  copper  coin,  yet  attentive  and 
appreciative.  The  moment  I  crossed  over  to 
England,  a  great  and  immediate  change  be- 
came apparent.  The  English  people  were  so 
odd  :  I  "  tried  confusions  with  them."  I  played 
one  of  my  little  dramas — I  think  it  was  the 
story  of  Oberon  and  Titania — before  a 
Kentish  audience  on  a  wayside  green  in  a 
sweet  rustic  village.  Elizabethan  half-timbered 
houses  fronted  the  play-stow  :  yet,  to  my  sur- 
prise and  chagrin,  the  villagers  looked  on  list- 
lessly at  t"rst,  then  i.urst  out  in  coarse  laughter. 


136 


Rosalba 


Burning  in  the  face,  I  danced  and  worked  my 
puppets  ;  my  audience  gazed  at  me  with  the 
wrong  kind  of  merriment.  They  laughed,  not 
with  me,  but  at  me.  The  harder  I  exerted 
myself  to  please  them,  the  more  did  they  grin 
at  me  for  a  silly  foreign  idiot.  I  flushed  and 
bit  my  lip ;  I  held  back  my  tears ;  I  knew  I 
was  beaten.  It  was  my  first  great  artistic  dis- 
appointment ; — a  Christmas  gambol  or  a  tum- 
bling trick,  1  had  nothing  to  offer  that  these 
English  cared  for. 

I  slank  off  to  bed  that  night  in  the  Fisher- 
man's Arms,  a  limp,  broken  creature.  Could 
these  be  Shakespeare's  countrymen  ?  Though 
1  had  been  so  long  away  from  England,  in 
outlandish  parts,  I  still  retained  my  native 
British  sense  that  what  the  English  liked  must 
be  the  standard  of  taste;  and  the  discovery 
that  my  work  was  not  good  enough  for  Eng- 
land cut  the  solid  ground  from  beneath  me  like 
an  earthquake.  I  had  come  to  my  own,  and 
my  own  rejected  me. 

I  know  now,  of  course,  that  the  romantic 
and  artistic  peoples  of  the  Mediterranean  lands 
entered  into  my  fantastic  mood  sympathetically, 
and  loved  what  I  offered  them  :  the  coarse  and 
full-fed  English  rustics  did  not  understand  my 

7 


I  Change  Masters 


n? 


worked  my 
le  with  the 
lughed,  not 
r  I  exerted 
d  they  grin 
lushed  and 
;  I  knew  I 
artistic  dis- 
)1  or  a  turn- 
that  these 

the  Fisher- 
ire.  Could 
I  ?  Though 
ingland,  in 
my  native 
I  liked  must 
e  discovery 
rh  for  Eng- 
:ath  me  like 
ly  own,  and 

le  romantic 
anean  lands 
pathetically, 
:  coarse  and 
lerstand  my 


monologue  or  my  acting ;  they  preferred  a 
circus.  A  conjurer's  dog,  jumping  through 
fire  amid  red-covered  hoops,  meant  more  to 
these  clods  than  my  tripping  Titania. 

Indeed,  my  heart  sank  when  I  tried  to  trans- 
late into  my  most  native  mother-tongue  the 
well-worn  phrases  that  had  told  so  often  in 
F" ranee  and  Italy.  "  The  part  of  Oberon  by 
Mr.  John  Puppet "  had  not  the  ghost  of  a 
laugh  in  it.  The  Kentish  rustics  stared,  and 
seemed  to  think  me  mad.  In  England,  at 
least,  it  was  not  in  villages  that  I  was  to  find 
encoura  oment. 


CHAPTER  IX 


GOOD   SOCIETY 


I  WAS  over  twelve  when  I  left  the  dear 
Monti  Berici,  with  their  tunnels  of  vine- 
trellis  ;  I  was  full  fourteen  by  the  time  that  I 
landed  in  England.  But  the  exceptional  advant- 
ages in  the  way  of  education  which  I  had  en- 
joyed meanwhile  made  me  older  than  my  years. 
At  an  age  when  most  girls  are  wasting  their 
days  over  learning  by  rote  that  which  will 
avail  them  nothing,  I  had  acquired  an  amount 
of  first-hand  knowledge  that  was  to  stand  me 
in  good  stead  throughout  my  later  life.  In 
place  of  the  dates  of  Anglo-Saxon  kings,  and 
the  useless  mysteries  of  tare  and  tret,  I  had 
had  direct  contact  with  affairs ;  I  had  learnt 
languages  and  the  value  of  money ;  my  poor 
little  plays  had  taught  me  at  least  the  habit  of 
literary  composition ;  even  from  the  point  of 
view  of  culture,  it  was  no  small  matter  that  I 

138 


t  the  dear 
ds  of  vine- 
time  that  I 
)nal  advant- 
h  I  had  en- 
n  my  years, 
asting  their 
which  will 
an  amount 
o  stand  me 
er  life.     In 
kings,  and 
tret,  I  had 
had  learnt 
/ ;  my  poor 
the  habit  of 
le  point  of 
atter  that  I 


Good  Society 


139 


had  lived  with  Shakespeare,  Dante,  Moli^re, 
De  Musset,  Shelley. 

Not  that  I  loved  my  more  immediate  human 
companions.  My  life  was  in  the  ideal.  The 
First  Murderer,  I  may  say,  did  not  take  my 
fancy.  He  was  a  malign,  unshaven  Adonis  of 
fifty,  and  he  had  a  trick  of  leering  which  dis- 
pleased me.  We  had  got  half-way  to  London, 
or  further,  however,  when  an  episode  occurred 
which  severed  our  connection. 

The  First  Murderer's  wife  went  off  inlj  a 
village  one  morning  to  buy  bread,  leaving  her 
husband  and  myself  to  light  the  fire  for  the 
kettle  by  the  roadside.  We  were  camped  on 
a  common,  with  abundance  of  brushwood. 
While  she  was  gone,  and  I  was  blowing  the 
embers,  the  Murderer,  with  an  odious  leer,  be- 
gan to  talk  to  me  in  a  low  and  blandishing 
voice,  praising  my  beautiful  eyes  and  making 
other  unnecessary  remarks  about  my  personal 
appearance.  He  was  a  slimy  creature.  His 
face  came  so  close  to  mine  as  he  spoke  that  I 
could  feel  his  hot  garlic-laden  breath  on  my 
cheek. 

I  did  not  value  his  admiration.  There  are 
people  who  are  most  loathsome  when  they  try 
to  make  love.     But  I  would  not  let  him  see  I 


i 


I40 


Rosalba 


was  afraid.  "  Pray  do  not  trouble  to  continue," 
I  said  in  my  coldest  voice.  '*  I  have  seen  my- 
self in  a  mirror.  Also,  your  conversation 
bores  me." 

He  drew  still  nearer.  "  But,  bella  mia"  he 
cried,  r.gling. 

*'  ICoep  off ! "  I  said,  drawing  back. 

*'  You  are  cruel,  dear  child  ! " 

I  rose  with  a  look  that  quelled  him.  "  Good 
morning,"  I  murmured  abruptly.  "  I  have  had 
enough  of  you.  Do  not  dare  to  say  one  word. 
1  go  my  own  way"  And  I  turned  and  left 
him. 

He  was  too  much  astonished  to  follow  me, 
thinking  no  doubt  I  would  return  (for  break- 
fast) in  a  few  minutes. 

But  I  had  no  intention  of  returning.  I 
strolled  off  by  myself,  in  the  most  casual  mood 
— up  a  path  that  led  obliquely  along  a  spur  of 
the  downs — without  the  slightest  notion  what 
I  meant  to  do,  yet  satisfied  with  the  sunshine, 
th*^.  green  trees,  the  song  of  birds  in  the  copses. 
A  scent  of  dog-roses  stole  on  tiptoe  from  the 
neighbouring  hedgerows.  The  sky  was  a  blue 
vault — blue  with  a  fathomless  deep  English 
blue,  relieved  here  and  there  by  fleecy  white 
clouds.     In  Italy  we  never  see  it  a  blue  like 


Good  Society 


141 


0  continue, 
/e  seen  my- 
onversation 

Ua  mm"  he 

:k. 

m.  "  Good 
'  I  have  had 
y  one  word, 
ed  and  left 

follow  me, 
(for  break- 

;turning.  I 
:asual  mood 
\g  a  spur  of 
lotion  what 
le  sunshine, 

1  the  copses. 
ye.  from  the 
'  was  a  blue 
ep  English 
leecy  white 

a  blue  like 


that— not  the  clear  and  profound  ultramarine 
of  England ;  our  skies  are  mostly  pallid  and 
dimly  hazy.  The  freshness  of  spring  and  of 
chalk  country  met  on'^'s  face  in  the  air — an  in- 
definable freshne-^j,  as  of  sprouting  green 
things  and  bursting  seeds;  the  turf  on  the 
downs  spread  close  and  springy.  It  yielded 
under  one's  feet.  In  the  distance  a  wedge 
of  sea  just  showed  itself  through  a  gap.  I 
mounted  and  mounted,  trolling  out  my  stave 
as  I  went — and  without  the  remotest  idea  how 
I  could  get  a  dinner.  Blame  Nature,  if  you 
disapprove  ;  she  made  me  a  Bohemian. 

At  the  end  of  the  steep  foot-path  which  I 
had  taken  haphazard  in  my  haste,  a  road  ran 
among  beeches  :  a  highroad  on  the  hilltop,  like 
the  ridge  of  a  hog's  back.  I  followed  it  a  few 
yards  and  saw  an  open  gateway,  with  solid 
stone  balls  capping  the  square  pillars.  The 
gateway  gave  access  to  the  grounds  of  a  great 
house ;  an  avenue  lined  with  rhododendrons 
led  up  to  it.  I  turned  in  past  the  lodge  as  if 
the  place  belonged  to  me.  I  did  not  yet  un- 
derstand the  peculiar  sanctity  which  attaches 
in  England  to  the  landed  interest.  Perhaps 
had  I  understood  it.  even  a  gay  little  iconoclast 
like  myself  might  have  feai'^d  to  intrude— in 


f 


142 


Rosalba 


/ 


which  case  the  whole  course  of  my  later  life 
would  have  been  totally  different. 

As  it  was,  I  strolled  up  the  avenue,  sinj^insr 
aloud  as  I  walked.  I  trolled  a  gay  song  I  had 
picked  up  in  Paris.  'T  was  nice  to  be  thus 
alone,  and  to  have  cut  myself  loose  from  the 
One-eyed  Calender,  the  First  Murderer,  and 
their  respective  Signore.  Pom,  pom,  pom :  I 
would  be  free,  free,  free — que  f  aime  la  libcrU  ! 
I  sang  it  out  loudly. 

Presently,  at  a  bend  of  the  avenue,  like  a 
sudden  Gorgon  in  the  garden  of  the  Hes- 
perides,  an  old  gentleman  faced  me. 

He  was  a  fruity  old  gentleman,  somewhat 
red  in  the  face,  and  extremely  well-fed  ;  he 
carried  the  mark  of  long  good-feeding  obtrus- 
ively before  him.  He  was  placidly  self-satis- 
fied. His  features  were  an  epitome  of  the 
landed  interest. 

He  stared  at  me,  amazed  at  such  exotic  in- 
solence. A  little  Italian  girl,  tricked  out  in  a 
theatrical  fancy-dress  costume,  trespassing  on 
his  grounds — and  not  only  trespassing,  but 
singing  as  she  trespassed !  I  think  he  could 
scarce  believe  his  eyes  ;  I  know  he  rubbed 
them  twice  before  he  accosted  me. 

Then   he  spoke    severely:     "Look    here, 


/ 


y  later  life 

ue,  sinjrinir 
song  I  had 
to  be  thus 
e  from  the 
rderer,  and 
•w,  pom:  I 
?/rt  liber td  ! 

nue,  like  a 
[  the  Hcs- 

,  somewhat 
ell-fed  ;  he 
ling  obtrus- 
ly  self-satis- 
3me  of  the 

h  exotic  in- 
ced  out  in  a 
spassing  on 
lassing,  but 
ik  he  could 
he  rubbed 

Look    here, 


Good  Society 


H3 


child,  what 's  this  you  're  doing  ?     These  are 
private  grounds," 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  I  answered.     "  I  'm  a 
|)rivate  person."     And  I  strolled  calmly  past 

him. 

He  opened  his  mouth  with  a  curious  drop  of 
surprise,  and  stared  at  me  mutely,  while  his 
red  face  grew  redder.  His  look  was  one  of 
coo!  remonstrant  bewilderment.  At  first,  I 
think,  he  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  angry  or 
not.  But,  after  a  moment,  his  brain  worked 
—it  took  it  a  perceptible  interval  to  recover 
from  the  shock— the  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitched,  and  he  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  unconcerned  young  vaga- 
bonds I  ever  did  see  ! "  he  cried,  gazing  at  n  - 
as  if  I  were  on  exhibition. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  so,"  I  said ;  "  I  am  not  a 
toad." 

"  I  suppose  you  belong  to  an  organ-grinder," 
he  went  on,  resting  his  huge  bulk  on  his  stick 
behind  him. 

"  I  belong  to  myself,"  I  answered,  confront- 
ing him.  "  Do  you  take  me  for  a  Circassian  ? 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England.  'T  is  the 
home  of  the  brave  and  the  land  of  the  free. 
Rule,  Britannia  !  "—this  I   sang— -  Britannia 


144 


Rosalba 


rules  the  waves  !  BrI-tons  never,  never,  never 
—shall— be — slaves ! " 

He  regarded  me  fixedly.  He  was  never  in 
a  hurry.  "  But  you  Wc  no  Briton,"  he  objected 
with  a  glance  up  and  down  at  my  Italian  finery. 

"  Born  in  the  parish  of  St.  Pancras,"  I  re- 
torted with  glib  ease,  quoting  Mariana's  favour- 
ite boast.      "That's   English   enough,  is  it 

not?" 

'•  Then  why  peacock  about  in  this  toggery  ? 
He  pointed  contempt  at  my  Italian  garb  with 
one  fat  red  hand. 

"  You  need  not  turn  your  nose  up  at  it,"  I 
replied.  '"T  is  the  sign  of  my  ancestry.  My 
father  was  a  Garibaldian,  who  freed  Italy." 

"  And  now  he  grinds  an  organ  ! " 

"  You  jump  at  conclusions,"  I  cried,  growing 
warm,  and  drawing  myself  up.  "  He  does 
nothing  of  the  sort."  I  assumed  my  best 
Coriolanus  tone.  "  He  is  a  landed  proprietor 
on  the  Monti  Berici  near  Vicenza." 

That  avowal  produced  an  immediate  effect 
upon  the  corpulent  old  gentleman.  The  one 
thing  in  this  world  that  he  really  respected  was 
Landed  Property.  He  spelt  it  with  mental 
capitals.  The  word  made  him  stare  harder 
than  ever.      "Then  why  does  his  daughter 


lever,  never 

was  never  in 
'  he  objected 
talian  finery, 
ncras,"  I  re- 
ana's  favour- 
nough,   is   it 

lis  toggery  ?  " 
in  garb  with 

2  up  at  it,"  I 
icestry.  My 
ed  Italy." 

1" 

ried,  growing 
"  He  does 
ned  my  best 
led  proprietor 
1." 

nediate  effect 
in.  The  one 
respected  was 
:  with  mental 
stare  harder 
his  daughter 


Good  Society 


H5 


trapes  about  the  world  lilcc  this?"  he  asked 
in  an  incredulous  voice. 

"  Home-keeping  youth  have   ever  homely 
wits,"  I  answered,  looking  upon  him.     Then  I 
burst  out  singing  again,  ''  Pom,  pom,  pom  !  que 
J'ai'mc  la  liber td  /  " 

His  face  was  a  study  of  utter  puzzlement. 
He  put  his  fat  red  hands  where  his  hips  should 
have  been,  and  stood  gazing  at  mc  vacantly. 
"  Can't  you  read  that  notice  ?"  he  said  at  last, 
pointing  to  the  usual  board  with  its  vulgar 
tlireat  of  "Trespassers  will  be  prosecuted." 

"  I  have  read  it,"  I  answered  ;  "  it's  not  very 
original.  Besides,  I  suppose  you  pray,  '  For- 
give us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them  that 
trespass  against  us.'  " 

He  turned  toward  the  house  in  the  back- 
ground, and  cried  aloud,  "  Mrs.  Mallory  !  Mrs. 
Mallory !  come  here  at  once ;  I  have  some- 
thing to  show  you." 

I  dropped  a  little  bob.  "  Thanks  for  iking- 
ing  me,"  I  put  in  saucily.  "  Somebody  would 
ha/e  been  politer." 

'Gracious  heavens!"  he  ejaculated.  "The 
infant  is  going  to  teach  me  manners  ! " 

Mrs.  Mallory  hurried  down  from  the  veran- 
dah of  the  big  house.     She  was  a  bright  and 


146 


Rosalba 


gracious-lookinjT  micldle-aged  lady,  artistically 

dressed   in   a   divinely  lovely  gown   of   some 

loose  light  material,  and  artistic  in  expression. 

"Well,  Sir  Hugh?"  she  said  in  an  inquir- 


inof  ♦^onc. 


The  corpulent  old  gentleman  pointed  to- 
wards me  with  his  stick  from  a  safe  distance. 
"  This  is  a  Phenomenon,"  he  said  solemnly. 

The  lady  inspected  me  with  a  kindly  smiie. 
I  love  the  bright  smile  of  an  English  lady. 
There  is  so  much  heart  in  it.  "This  is  a 
model,"  she  answered,  laughing.  "  A  splendid 
model.  Such  exquisite  curves  and  plenitudes 
in  her  contours  !  " 

"  What  do  you  think  she  said  to  me  ?  "  Sir 
Hugh,  went  on,  gasping.  "  I  said,  'You  can't 
come  in  here  ;  these  are  private  grounds '  ; 
and  the  little  minx  looked  up  at  me  -cucum- 
bers could  n't  compare  with  her — and  plumps 
out,  as  jaunty  as  can  be,  '  That 's  all  right ; 
I  'm  a  private  person.'  Plumps  it  out  to  me, 
in  my  own  grounds."  And  he  laughed  again 
at  the  bare  recollection  of  my  foreign  audacity. 

"  She  seems  a  pretty  brazen  piece  of  goods," 
the  lady  admitted,  still  scanning  mc,  but  smil- 
ing. 

"  Not    br-izen,"    !    answered,   flushing    up ; 


Good  Society 


147 


y,  artistically 
ivn  of  some 
1  expression, 
n  an  inquir- 

poiiited   to- 
afe  distance. 
,  solemnly, 
kindly  sniile. 
English  lady. 

"This  is  a 
"  A  splendid 
id  plenitudes 

to  me  ?"  Sir 
\,  'You  can't 
;€  grounds '  ; 

me  — cucum- 
— and  plumps 

's  all  right ; 
it  out  to  me, 
lughed  again 
ign  audacity, 
ce  of  goods," 
me,  but  smil- 

flushing    up  ; 


"  vivacious— that 's  all.  Tra-la-la— /t?w,  />om, 
pom  /  zimbouvt  /  '  T  is  the  southern  blood  in 
me." 

They  interchanged   quick   glances.       Mrs. 
Mallory's  face  grew  snddenly  grave.      "  But— 
you  arc  a  lady,  my  child,"  she  said.     "  Tell  me 
all  about  yourself.      I  did  n't  think  you  under- 
stood English  or  I  would  not  have  spoken  so." 
I  was  in  the  gayest  possible  mood,  having 
just  sloughed  off  the  First  Murderer  and  all 
his  works :  but  the  stra.ige  touch  of  kindness 
in  the  lady's  voice,  so  long  unknown  to  me, 
went  through  me  like  a  knife.      I  swallowed  a 
sob ;  then  my  heart  was  too  much  for  me.     I 
1  sat  down  by  the  trunk  of  a  big  beech  and 
burst  out  crying.     In  a  second,  Mrs.  Mallory 
was  kneeling  by  my  side  and  bending  over  me 
with  tender  sympathy.     It  was  years  since  I 
had  known  tenderness,  and  it  cut  me  to  the 
quick.     I  sobbed  harder  and  harder.      I  could 
not  control  myself. 

She  led  me  up  to  the  great  house,  and  took 
me  into  a  drawing-room.  It  was  the  "grand- 
est "  room  I  had  ever  been  in  ;  Mariana  would 
have  revelled  in  it;  and  indeed,  Sir  Hugh 
Tachbrook,  to  whom  the  place  belonged,  was 
one  of  the  richest  men  in  that  part  of  England. 


148 


Rosalba 


She  seated  me  on  the  sofa — such  a  soft,  re- 
poseful, luxurious  sofa  ! — and  waited  patiently 
by  my  side  till  I  should  recover  from  my  par- 
oxysm. Once  or  twice  Sir  Hu^h  interposed 
a  remark,  offering  advice  or  consolation — sal 
volatile  or  brandy  and  water  ;  but  Mrs.  Mallory 
shook  her  head  and  answered  in  French,  which 
she  clearly  imagined  I  would  not  understand, 
"  No,  no ;  let  the  poor  child  cry  it  out ;  it  is 
the  only  plan.  She  is  unaccustomed  to  kind- 
ness ;  that  takes  her  breath  away." 

I  was  grateful  to  her  for  those  words ;  grate- 
ful— and  surprised  to  learn  that  there  existed 
in  the  world  other  people  who  could  under- 
stand, who  felt  and  thought  and  spoke  as  I  did. 

Like  a  flash  it  came  over  me,  "  These  people 
are  my  sort.  I  have  been  living  all  my  life  in 
alien  company.  Mrs.  Mallory  is  like  myself 
and  Miranda  and  Rosalind." 

Slowly  and  gradually  I  cried  my  stock  of 
tears  out.  I  calmed  my  inner  tumult  as  soon 
as  I  could,  for  Mrs.  Mallory 's  sake,  for  I  could 
see  that  my  weeping  distressed  her.  But  I 
clasped  her  hand  tight  all  the  time  with  a  re- 
current pressure  ;  and  each  time  I  pressed, 
her  hand  pressed  back  again.  Touch  is  the 
mother-sense  of  the   emotions.     In   that  un- 


Good  Society 


149 


h  a  soft,  re- 
:ed  patiently 
rom  my  par- 
h  interposed 
iolation — sal 
^rs.  Mallory 
rench,  which 
understand, 
it  out ;  it  is 
ned  to  kind- 

ords;  grate- 
here  existed 
:ould  under- 
oke  as  I  did. 
rhese  people 
all  my  life  in 
like  myself 

my  stock  of 
nult  as  soon 
2,  for  I  could 
her.  But  I 
le  with  a  re- 
2  I  pressed, 
'ouch  is  the 
In   that  un- 


spoken sympathy  we  seemed  to  read  and  draw 
near  to  one  another. 

At  last  she  rose,  and  glided  softly  from  the 
room  for  a  minute.  When  she  returned  she 
brought  in  a  cake  and  a  glass  of  milk.  She  cut 
me  a  big  slice.  "Eat  that,  my  child,"  she 
said  gently,  handing  it  to  me. 

I  was  hungry  as  a  hawk  that  morning,  having 
had  no  breakfast  except  a  piece  of  dry  bread, 
so  I  wiped  my  eyes  and  eat  it,  not  greedily,  I 
hope,  but  with  evident  enjoyment.  Sir  Hugh 
looked  on,  grave  doubt  in  his  glance.  "  Do 
you  think  it  is  too  rich  for  her?"  he  asked 
Mrs.  Mallory. 

*'  Rich ! "  I  answered,  smiling  up  at  him 
through  my  tears  ;  "  't  is  a  perfect  Croesus  of  a 
cake." 

They  both  laughed  and  interchanged  glances 
once  more.  I  felt  how  nice  it  was  to  be  among 
people  who  were  well-read  like  oneself,  and 
who  understood  the  meaning  of  an  allusion. 
The  One-eyed  Calender  and  the  First  Murderer 
understood  so  little ;  and  even  my  peasant 
audiences,  though  they  followed  my  plays, 
missed  many  small  points  in  them.  They 
knew  not  Croesus. 

My  new  friends  talked  to  me  for  some  time. 


J50 


Rosalba 


asking  me  questions  about  myself  and  my 
mode  of  life.  I  answered  frankly,  telling  them 
the  story  of  the  One-eyed  Calender  and  the 
First  Murderer,  and  my  impromptu  Shake- 
spearian representations,  and  the  book  that 
the  old  gentleman  in  France  had  given  me. 
My  odd,  fanciful  names  for  persons  and  things 
amused  them.  When  I  spoke  of  my  plays, 
Mrs.  Mallory  asked  me  to  give  her  a  specimen. 
I  clapped  my  hand  to  my  head.  "  Impossible  ! " 
I  answered  with  tragic  despair  (after  Juliet). 
"  The  First  Murderer  has  my  costumes,  my 
properties,  my  dolls  and  dresses  ! " 

Mrs.  Mallory  rose  promptly.  "That  will 
do,"  she  said  with  decision  to  Sir  Hugh.  "  She 
is  the  very  model  I  want.  She  poses  splendidly. 
Such  suppleness  of  limb  !  The  real  thing, 
not  wooden  imitation.  I  must  make  some 
arrangement."  She  rang  the  bell.  "Simp- 
son," she  went  on,  "  ask  that  Italian  man  to 
step  this  way." 

A  minute  later  the  First  Murderer  entered, 
conical  hat  in  hand,  much  abashed  and  trem- 
bling. Big  and  burly  as  he  was,  he  seemed 
afraid  of  the  drawing-room,  while  as  for  me,  I 
had  entered  it  as  though  drawing-rooms  ought 
always  to  have  belonged  to  me. 


Good  Society 


i5» 


elf  and  my 
telling  them 
der  and  the 
iptu  Shake- 
:  book  that 
1  given  me. 
s  and  things 
f  my  plays, 
r  a  specimen, 
mpossible ! " 
ifter  Juliet). 
)stumes,  my 

"That  will 
Aigh.  "  She 
;s  splendidly. 
:   real  thing, 

make  some 
ell.  "  Simp- 
ilian  man  to 

2rer  entered, 
:d  and  trem- 
,  he  seemed 
as  for  me,  I 
rooms  ought 


I  saw  at  once  what  had  happened.  They 
had  sent  out  searchers  and  found  the  man 
while  I  was  crying  and  eating  my  cake,  and 
had  asked  him  to  come  in  and  confront  me. 

"She  says  that  she  is  not  your  daughter," 
Mrs.  Mallory  began  in  Italian,  which  she  spoke 
with  fair  fluency. 

The  First  Murderer  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  opened  two  demonstrative  palms.  "  She 
is  a  bad  girl,  signora,"  he  answered  in  his  slimy 
voice,  glaring  at  me  sidelong  with  a  furtive 
glare.  "  She  would  say  anything  to  get  away 
from  her  father  and  mother." 

I  recognised  at  once  that  I  had  the  advantage 
of  him  in  this  discussion,  because  he  could  only 
speak  Italian,  which  I  understood,  while  I 
could  speak  English,  which  he  did  not  follow. 
"It  is  not  true,"  I  cried  in  English  to  Mrs. 
Mallory  "  I  am  not  his  daughter.  My  father 
is  Signor  Antonio  Lupari,  of  the  Monti  Berici, 
near  Vicenza.  If  you  do  not  believe  me,  you 
can  write  and  ask  him." 

My  openness  carried  conviction.  "  Sounds 
straight,"  Sir  Hugh  admitted.  In  a  very  few 
words,  I  told  them  the  rest  of  my  little  story. 
Mrs.  Mallory  listened  and  clearly  believed  me. 
"  But    I   suppose  we  must  pay  something  to 


'52 


Rosalba 


this  ruffian,"  she  said  at  last  to  Sir  Hugh, 
"  just  to  make  him  relinquish  his  imaginary 
claim  upon  her." 

"  Not  one  penny  !  "  I  cried  firmly.  "  The 
man  is  a  cheat.  Don't  let  him  worm  a  single 
sou  out  of  you." 

The  First  Murderer  cringed  and  scraped. 
Though  he  did  not  understand  their  words,  he 
could  see  that  they  were  ready  to  pay,  and 
that  I  opposed  his  interests ;  and  he  glanced 
at  me  as  if  he  would  choke  me.  His  fingers 
fumbled  nervously.  "  Microbe  !  "  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth.  But  I  fought  it  out  with 
him  undaunted,  in  very  voluble  Italian.  At 
last  he  threw  up  his  hands  in  pantomimic  de- 
spair. "  Give  me  what  I  paid  for  her,  then," 
he  exclaimed  as  the  honest  man  wronged,  fling- 
ing his  lie  to  the  winds.  "  I  bought  the  little 
animal  in  Paris,  and  gave  her  last  owner  thirty 
francs  for  her." 

"  It  is  not  true,"  I  broke  in,  in  English,  to 
Mrs.  Mallory.  "He  gave  fourteen  francs  and 
a  glass  of  absinthe." 

They  laughed  again  at  my  vehemence,  and 
at  the  nature  of  the  bargain.  But  after  some 
higgling,  Mrs.  Mallory  yielded,  and  com- 
promised the  matter  for  twenty  shillings  down. 


Good  Society 


153 


Sir  Hugh, 
s  imaginary 

tnly.  "  The 
>rm  a  single 

md  scraped. 

:ir  words,  he 

to  pay,  and 

he  glanced 

His  fingers 

he  muttered 

it  out  with 

Italian.     At 

itomimic  de- 

r  her,  then," 

onged,  fling- 

:ht  the  little 

owner  thirty 

English,  to 
n  francs  and 

emence,  and 
It  after  some 
,  and  com- 
illings  down. 


The  First  Murderer  was  to  relinquish  all 
claim  to  my  guardianship.  I  was  to  have  my 
few  bits  of  clothing,  my  dolls,  and  my  ^^ro- 
perties,  and  above  all  the  book  that  the  old 
gentleman  gave  me. 

The  money  was  paid  in  hand,  and  the  First 
Murderer,  clutching  it,  backed  out  by  degrees, 
always  slimy,  and  bowing  many  times,  but 
casting  a  farewell  scowl  at  me.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone,  Mrs.  Mallory  turned  to  where  I 
stood.  "  Now  you  are  mine,  my  child,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "  I  have  bought  you  and  paid 
for  you." 

I  jumped  at  her  and  kissed  her  hand.  "  No  ; 
not  yours,"  J.  answered,  bending  over  it  and 
letting  a  tear  fall  warm  on  it.  "  My  own.  You 
are  a  sweet,  kind  lady,  and  I  should  love  to 
serve  you.  But  I  was  not  his  to  sell.  I  am 
my  own — my  own — a  free  Italian  !  " 

Mrs.  Mallory  laughed,  and  turned  to  Sir 
Hugh.  "A  young  individualist,  you  see," 
she  murmured  softly. 

Sir  Hugh  grunted  a  grumpy  grunt.  "A 
young  rebel,  /call  it ! "  he  answered.  "  People 
don't  know  their  proper  places  nowadays. 
Especially  womenkind.  She  's  a  saucy  little 
baggage,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  her  ! " 


k 


154 


Rosalba 


"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  I  asked 
of  my  new  friend  confidingly  ;  for  I  felt  she 
had  taken  my  future  into  her  own  hands,  and 
when  I  looked  at  her  face  I  was  willing  to  let 
it  rest  there. 

"  Come  to  my  house  and  see,"  she  answered, 
rising. 

I  looked  about  me,  a  little  sorry.  "  Oh, 
then  this  is  not  your  house,"  I  said,  with  a 
shade  of  disappointment. 

"  Oh  no,  not  mine;  this  is  Sir  Hugh  Tach- 
brook's,"  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  towards  the 
fat  old  gentleman. 

"  I  wish  it  was  yours  ! "  I  cried,  surveying 
it. 

"  Hear,  hear ! "  Sir  Hugh  exclaimed  with 
warmth.  (He  had  been  in  Parliament,  I  learned 
later.)  "  That  's  the  most  sensible  thing  the 
child  has  said  yet,  Mrs.  Mallory.  Go  on  like 
that,  you  young  monkey,  and  I  '11  begin  to 
think  better  of  you.  It  is  no  fault  of  mine 
that  this  is  not  her  house — but  she 's  an  ob- 
durate creature." 

Mrs.  Mallory  glanced  at  him  pleadingly. 
**  You  promised  me,  Sir  Hugh,"  she  said,  in  a 
very  low  voice.  "  How  can  I  come  here  again 
if  you  continue  to  persecute  me  ?     I  like  you 


Good  Society 


155 


'"  I  asked 
■  I  felt  she 
hands,  and 
illing  to  let 

2  answered, 

rry.  "  Oh, 
lid,  with  a 

I  ugh  Tach- 
:owards  the 

,  surveying 

aimed  with 
It,  I  learned 
;  thing  the 
Go  on  like 

II  begin  to 
jlt  of  mine 
le's  an  ob- 

pleadingly. 

e  said,  in  a 

;  here  again 

I  like  you 


But  if  you 
alter    my 


as  a  dear  and  valued  old  friend, 
insist     on    trying     to    make    me 
resvtlve " 

Sir  Hugh  was  all  penitence.  "  My  dear 
lady,"  he  niurmured,  stooping  and  kissing  her 
hand  submissively,  "  I  forget — I  forget.  But 
it  shall  not  occur  again.  If  you  shut  up  the 
gate  you  will  drive  me  to  distraction." 

For  myself,  I  listened  with  the  intensest  in- 
terest. These  people  talked  and  thought  like 
the  people  in  my  books.  I  felt  I  had  escaped 
from  the  world  that  did  not  understand  me  to 
the  society  in  which  I  had  always  mixed — in 
fancy. 

It  is  beyond  a  doubt  that  each  one  of  us 
lives  a  day-dream  life  as  well  as  a  practical  one. 
My  day-dream  life  seemed  about  to  realise  itself. 


I  ' 


i 


CHAPTER   X 


A    NEW    PROFESSION 

SHE  led  me  across  the  lawn  and  through  a 
little  copse  of  larches  at  the  side  to  a 
gate  in  a  hedge.  I  understood  at  once,  being 
a  girl  and  a  southerner,  that  this  was  the  gate 
of  which  Sir  Hugh  had  just  spoken  ;  it  joined 
their  properties  ;  and  Mrs.  Mallory  must  have 
threatened  to  close  it  if  he  repeated  his  atten- 
tions. On  his  side  of  the  hedge,  all  was  trim 
orderliness ;  on  hers,  all  was  rampant  bowery 
luxuriance.  We  walked  on  through  the  answer- 
ing but  far  more  carelessly-ordered  copse  be- 
yond the  gate,  and  soon  reached  a  cottage,  ever 
so  much  smaller  than  Sir  Hugh's  great  house, 
but  oh,  so  pretty  and  picturesque !  It  had  a 
rustic  porch  covered  with  old  climbing  honey- 
suckle, as  well  as  a  verandah,  up  whose  rough 
wooden  posts  red  roses  clambered  to  peep  in 
with  curious  eyes  at  the  first-floor  windows. 

156 


1 


4 


d  through  a 
le  side  to  a 
once,  being 
vas  the  gate 
n  ;  it  joined 
r  must  have 
2d  his  atten- 
all  was  trim 
)ant  bowery 
I  the  answer- 
id  copse  be- 
:ottage,  ever 
great  house, 
!  It  had  a 
ibing  honey- 
irhose  rough 
1  to  peep  in 
3r  windows. 


A  New  Profession 


157 


The  perfume  of  jasmine  crept  on  the  still  air. 
'T  was  the  sweetest  little  cottage  I  had  ever 
be  held  ;  I  felt  instinctively  that  an  artist  inhab- 
ited it. 

Mrs.  Mallory  took  me  at  once  through  a 
dainty  little  rose-leaf-scented  drawing-room 
into  a  large  bare  hall  behind  of  a  sort  which  I 
had  never  before  seen,  but  which  I  recognised 
by  intuition  as  a  studio.  Its  furnishings  were 
simple  ;  its  colours  subdued.  A  great  square 
of  Saracen ic  tapestry  blocked  one  wall.  Pierced 
Moorish  lamps  hung  from  the  ceiling.  Pictures 
stood  on  easels  about  the  centre  of  the  room, 
finished  or  otherwise.  One  of  them  caught 
my  eye.  A  tall  and  beautiful  lady,  undraped, 
save  by  her  copious  fair  hair,  patted  a  white 
horse,  which  she  seemed  just  about  to  mount. 
Her  face  and  form  breathed  exquisite  purity.  I 
stood  and  stared  at  it. 

"You  like  it?"  Mrs.  Mallory  said,  watch- 
ing me  close. 

I  drew  a  deep  breath.  '*  It  is  lovely,"  I 
answered.      "  Lovely ! "      My  eyes  hung  on  it. 

This  undisguised  and  unfeigned  admiration 
seemed  to  please  her  not  a  little.  I  was  such 
an  unsophisticated  natural  critic.  "  It  is  Lady 
Godiva,"  she  explained,  lingering  on  it  with 


158 


Rosalba 


the  loving  eyes   of  a  creator.     "  She   is  just 
going  to  ride  through  the  streets  of  Coventry." 

"  I  don't  know  that  story,"  I  repUed.  *'  It's 
not  in  Shakespeare."  I  had  heard  of  Coventry 
only  in  connection  with  Falstaff. 

"  No,  but  it 's  in  Tennyson." 

The  name  was  still  a  name  to  me.  I  looked 
blank.  Mrs.  Mallory,  observing  my  face,  and 
intent,  no  doubt,  on  drawing  me  out,  fetched  a 
small  green  book,  opened  a  page,  and  handed 
it  to  me.  "Read  aloud,"  she  said.  I  read 
aloud.  The  poem  began—**  I  waited  for  the 
train  at  Coventry."  I  read  it  dramatically, 
drinking  it  in  as  I  went.  The  verse  thrilled 
me  through  and  through.  I  felt  with  that  one 
reading  that  I  had  discovered  a  new  poet — 
discovered  him  for  myself,  which  is  the  great 
matter.  Mrs.  Mallory's  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
me  as  I  rolled  out  the  liquid  lines.  "  Why, 
my  child,"  she  cried,  '*you  are  an  actress! 
Some  day  I  must  see  you  do  one  of  your  little 
sketches." 

*'  Would  you  like  to  see  me  now  ?" 
And,    nothing    loth,    I    dressed    up 
Antonio,  and  Shylock,  and  gave  my 
version  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Time  after  time,  as  I  went  on,  she  clapped 


I  cried. 

Portia, 

childish 


A  New  Profession 


159 


She   is  just 

•f  Coventry." 

ilied.     "It's 

of  Coventry 


le.  I  looked 
my  face,  and 
)ut,  fetched  a 

and  handed 
;aid.  I  read 
aited  for  the 
dramatically, 
/erse  thrilled 
with  that  one 
.  new  poet — 
I  is  the  great 
re  fixed  upon 
nes.  "  Why, 
an   actress ! 

of  your  little 

w?"    I  cried, 
up     Portia, 
;  my  childish 
ice. 
I,  she  clapped 


her  hands  and  cried,  "Stop  for  a  moment!  " 
then  she  made  a  quick  pencil-sketch  of  some 
attitude  or  gesture.  I  had  never  heard  of 
professional  models  till  then,  but  I  understood 
at  once  what  she  wanted.  As  soon  as  I  had 
finished,  she  laid  down  her  note-book  and  said 
to  me  quietly,  "  Now,  Rosalba,  do  you  think 
you  would  like  to  live  here  and  let  me  paint 
you?" 

I  cast  up  at  her  a  quick  glance.  "  No  Lady 
Godivas  ! "  I  said  with  firmness. 

She  laughed.  "  I  shall  not  want  you  for  the 
nude,"  she  answered.  "  You  know  what  that 
means?"  I  nodded.  "But  for  the  draped 
figure,  yes.  Do  you  think  you  would  care 
about  it  ?  " 

^^  I  reflected.  "Yes,  certainly,"  I  answered. 
"  It  is  an  art,  like  another.  I  should  prefer 
my  own  art  best— but  I  can  find  time  for  that ; 
and  yours"— I  glanced  at  the  canvas— " yours 
is  beautiful  ! " 

She  smiled  at  me  strangely.  Then  she  took 
my  hand  again.  "  You  are  a  queer  little  thing," 
she  said.  "A  sort  of  native  Eve— an  un- 
taught Beatrice.  Where  did  you  learn  it 
all?" 

"  I  was  born  so,  I  suppose.     I  have  always 


i6o 


Ro'^alba 


read    books    and    loved    what    I    f">  nd    i.. 

them." 

"  But   how   did  you   know   people   painte^l 
from  models,  and  especially  from  the  nude  ? " 

I  paused  to  think.     It  had  all  come  to  me  so 

naturally.    "  Well,  one  sees  artists  painting  hills 

and  trees  from  nature,"  I  said,  after  a  short 

mental  search  ;  "  and  hills  and  trees  must  surely 

be  easier  to  paint  from  imagination  than  people. 

And  one  sees  artists   painting  groups  in  the 

street,  all  clothed   and  moving;   but  it  must 

surely  be  easier  to  paint  people  clothed,  as  you 

see  them  every  day  and  know  them  <"amiliarly, 

than  to  paint  them  in  their  own  bodies  and 

limbs  as  you  see  them  so  few  and  so  seldom. 

Still,  one  finds  pictures  painted  like  your  Lady 

Godiva ;  and  since  they  are  so  true  to  life,  I 

suppose   artists    must    have   somebody   as   a 

model  to  paint  them  from." 

She  perused  me  with  some  surprise.  "  That 
is  so,"  she  said  slowly.  "  But— I  wonder  you 
thought  of  it." 

"  We  learn  to  think  of  many  things  on  the 
road,"  I  answered.  "  It  is  a  great  university. 
You  see,  our  livelihood  depends  upon  observ- 
ation. We  would  soon  starve  if  we  could  n't 
put  two  and  two  together." 


■/ 


I 


A  New  Profession 


i6i 


I    f;v  nd    i.» 

!ople  paintel 
the  nude  ?" 
ome  to  me  so 
painting  hills 
after  a  short 
es  must  surely 
n  than  people, 
croups  in  the 
;  but  it  must 
lothed,  as  you 
em  familiarly, 
m  bodies  and 
nd  so  seldom, 
ike  your  Lady 
true  to  life,  I 
mebody   as   a 

prise.     "  That 
-I  wonder  you 

things  on  the 
eat  university. 
s  upon  observ- 
If  we  could  n't 


"And  you  object  to  starving?" 

"  Well,  I  may  be  narrow-minded,  but— I  have 
a  prejudice  against  it." 

Mrs.  Mallory  paused.  Then  she  unfolded 
her  plan  to  me.  "  I  want  you  for  a  model  " 
she  said.  "I  will  paint  you  f^rst  in  Italian 
costume— possibly  afterwards  in  other  But 
not  except  in  costume.  And  I  shall  .  nn.  ou 
to  live  with  me.  My  gardener's  wife  ,gh  ke 
you  in,  perhaps,  and  give  you  bed  an.^  b,  akiast 
Your  other  meals  you  could  have  u^n  v  th  the 
servants." 

I  demurred.  "I  would  rath,  n.e  them 
with  the  gardener's  wife,  if  I  nught,"  I  an- 
swered, flushing. 

"  Why  ?  "  She  scanned  me  hard. 
I  hesitated.  <'Well,  I  hardly  know  w/iy 
You  thmk  it  odd  of  me,  after  the  company  I 
have  kept.  But  somehow— the  One-eyed  Cal 
ender  and  the  First  Murderer  were  no^  serv- 
ants. They  were  gentlemen  of  the  road,  but 
mdependent  gentlemen." 

She  pressed  my  hand  again.  "  You  quaint 
little  witch  !  she  exclaimed.  "  I  wonder  how 
you  discovered  all  these  things  !  But  you  are 
right,  quite  right.  There  is  nothing  menial 
m  gipsydom.     You   shall   not  mix   with  the 


l62 


Rosalba 


servants.     I  recognise  your  claim  to  brevet- 
gentility." 

"  Thank  you  ! "  I  answered.  "  I  am  not 
proud — beggars  cannot  be  choosers — but  I  am 
the  daughter  of  one  of  the  men  who  fought  to 
save  Italy."  I  was  growing  older  now,  and  by 
this  time,  I  think,  it  had  begun  to  dawn  upon 
me  that  my  father  did  not  expel  the  Austrians 
quite  single-handed. 

"  You  will  obey  me  in  everything  reason- 
able ?  "  she  asked,  half  doubtful. 

"Everything  reasonable!"  I  cried.  "Every- 
thing «»reasonable  if  it  is  your  wish,  dear  lady." 
So  all  was  shortly  arranged.  I  was  installed 
in  comfortable  quarters  in  the  gardener's  cot- 
tage ;  I  had  a  bed  to  sleep  on,  and  the  garden- 
er's wife  —  a  raw-boned  lady  with  a  broad 
Scotch  accent — was  told  ofif  to  look  after  me. 
I  took  my  meals  at  the  cottage,  and  went  up 
to  the  studio  every  morning  to  be  painted.  In 
point  of  fact,  I  had  arrived  at  the  psychological 
moment  for  Mrs.  Mallory.  As  the  butler  at 
Sir  Hugh's  phrased  it,  I  had  "  copped  her  on 
the  hop."  She  was  at  work  on  a  picture  in 
which  an  Italian  girl  was  a  necessary  element ; 
and  I  came  in  the  nick  of  time  to  fill  the  gap. 
But  I  had  piloted  my  ship  at  last  into  a 


m  to  brevet- 

"  I  am  not 
;rs — but  I  am 
/ho  fought  to 
r  now,  and  by 
:o  dawn  upon 
the  Austrians 

thing  reason- 

ied.  '*  Every- 
ih,  dear  lady." 

was  installed 
;ardener's  cot- 
id  the  garden- 
vith  a  broad 
ook  after  me. 

and  went  up 
e  painted.    In 

psychological 

the  butler  at 
opped  her  on 
1  a  picture  in 
isary  element ; 
to  fill  the  gap. 
at  last  into  a 


A  New  Profession 


163 


delicious  haven.     I   enjoycci   being   a  model. 

Mrs.  Mallory,  with  her  tender  smile  and  her 

sympathetic  manner,  became  a  real  friend  to 

me.     There  was  something  so  reposeful  about 

her  face  and    figure.     She  moved  with  slow 

grace.     Coffee-coloured  laces  belonged  to  her, 

of  congruity.     Her  house  was  like  herself— 

soft  colours,  velvety  carpets,  sheets  that  smelt 

of  fresh  lavender.     It  was  a  leisurely  home, 

and  she  was  a  leisurely  person.     I  understood 

her,   and  she   understood   me.     After  a   few 

days'  painting  she  said  to  me  spontaneously, 

"  I  see  more  and  more  that  you  were  quite 

right  about  not  having  your  meals  with  the 

servants,    Rosalba.     I    ought   never  to   have 

suggested  it.     Your  place  is  here.     You  were 

born  a  lady." 

"So  I  think,"  I  answered,  with  my  simple 
Italian  matter-of-factness.  "  I  have  always 
thought  that;  because,  when  I  read  about 
ladies  in  Shakespeare  and  Scott,  Rosalind  and 
Lady  Ashton  seemed  to  me  to  think  and  feel 
exactly  as  I  did." 

"  You  have  read  so  much  !  "  she  put  in. 
"Well,  it  was  easy  for  me,"  I  answered. 
"You   see,   I    hold  the  keys  of  three  great 
literatures." 


1  I 


164 


Rosalba 


She  only  stared  at  me ;  but  her  stare  said 
many  things. 

Those  weeks  at  Mrs.  Mallory's,  too,  were  a 
social  education  to  me.     Hitherto  I  had  learnt 
from   books   only,  or   from  contact  with  the 
sterner  realities  of  life ;  now  I  began  to  learn 
how  cultivated  men  and  women  talk,  and  to 
know  something  at  first  hand  of  the  mode  of 
thought   and   feeling   of    English  gentlefolk. 
That  is  a  profound  study  which  I  have  not  yet 
lived  long  enough  in  England  thoroughly  to 
master — if  anybody  ever  masters  its  endless 
intricacies — from  squire  to  rural  dean,   from 
knighted  soap-boiler  to  grammar-school  master ; 
but  my  life  at  Mrs.  Mallory's  sufificed  to  im- 
press upon  me  some  smattering  of  its  meaning. 
I  spent  most  of  my  days  in  the  studio,  and  as 
Sir  Hugh  and  others  were   constant  visitors 
there,  I  heard  much  and  learned  much.    Being 
by  nature  and  disposition   an  actress  and  a 
mimic,  this  glimpse  of  a  new  world  produced 
a  great  effect  upon  me.     In  a  very  few  weeks 
I  could  imitate  Sir  Hugh  on  the  scandalous 
fashion  in  which  the  labouring  classes  were 
getting  things  all  their  own  way — "  machina- 
tions of  levellers,  setting  class  against  class  " — 
and  could  discourse  like  Mrs.  Mallory  with 


/ 


er  stare  said 

;,  too,  were  a 
I  had  learnt 
act  with  the 
gan  to  learn 
talk,  and  to 
the  mode  of 
li   gentlefolk, 
have  not  yet 
horoughly  to 
s  its  endless 
I  dean,  from 
chool  master ; 
ifificed  to  im- 
F  its  meaning, 
itudio,  and  as 
stant  visitors 
much.    Being 
ictress  and  a 
•rid  produced 
ry  few  weeks 
le  scandalous 
classes  were 
J — "  machina- 
ainst  class  " — 
Mallory  with 


A  New  Profession 


165 


rapt  attention  about  textures  and  draperies, 
values  and  composition. 

My  new  employer  talked  much  to  me  while 
I  sat  to  her,  and  we  grew  to  be  great  friends. 
Indeed  the  word  sat  gives  a  false  idea  of  my 
usual  attitude,  formy  sitting  was  of  a  disjointed 
and  episodic  character.  I  ran  about,  chattered, 
struck  attitudes,  and  gave  Shakespearian  rep- 
resentations at  frequent  intervals;  and  Mrs. 
Mallory  took  what  she  thought  most  import- 
ant. She  wanted  me  for  hints,  she  said,  not 
for  regular  sittings.  My  small  audacities  de- 
lighted her. 

I  spent  the  summer  at  Patchingham.  The 
great  tranquillity,  the  green  stillness,  calmed 
me.  In  the  early  autumn  Mrs.  Mallory  went 
up  to  London  to  give  a  private  exhibition  of 
her  work  in  Bond  Street. 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  too,  Rosalba  ? " 
she  asked  me. 

Would  I  like  to  come  too !  I  could  not 
bear  to  be  away  from  her.  Affection  for  Mrs. 
Mallory  was  a  plant  of  quick  growth.  She 
was  more  of  a  mother  to  me  than  anyone  else 
had  ever  been,  and  I  told  her  so  frankly,  with 
southern  impulsiveness.  I  think  she  was  flat- 
tered, for  she  was  really  fond  of  me,  and  she 


\ 


1 66 


Rosalba 


never  tired  of  asking  me  to  give  my  little  en- 
tertainments before  visitors ;  but  like  a  true 
Englishwoman,  kind  as  she  was,  a  certain  bar- 
rier of  birth  prevented  her  from  saying  so. 
She  had  recognised  that  I  was  a  lady — but 
only  one  of  nature's  ladies ;  while  she  herself 
was  one  of  society's.  That  makes  a  difference 
still.  And  so,  though  she  would  hold  my  hand 
and  make  much  of  me,  she  never  once  kissed 
me — at  this  stage,  I  mean  ;  for  later  on  she 
learned  to  take  a  more  natural  view  of  me. 
That  is  the  way  with  Englishwomen.  Dis- 
tinctions of  blood  count  for  more  with  them, 
and  similarities  of  taste  and  nature  for  less, 
than  with  the  proudest  aristocracy  of  con- 
tinental Europe. 

However,  she  took  my  hand  now  and  an- 
swered warmly,  "  Very  well,  then,  dear ;  you 
shall  come  and  wait  about  in  the  room.  I  shall 
want  somebody  with  me.  And  I  had  rather 
it  should  be  you,  Rosalba,  than  anybody." 

Tears  rose  in  my  eyes.  I  brushed  them 
away.  Mrs.  Mallory  noticed  them.  *'  Why 
do  you  cry,  dear  ? "  she  asked  me. 

I  gulped  down  a  rising  throat,  and  answered 
mendaciously,  "  I  was  born  in  London,  and 
now  I  am  going  back  there."    I  did  not  realise 


/ 


my  little  en- 
like  a  true 
I  certain  bar- 
n  saying  so. 
2.  lady — but 
;  she  herself 
s  a  difference 
lold  my  hand 
once  kissed 
later  on  she 
view  of  me. 
omen.      Dis- 
e  with  them, 
ture  for  less, 
racy   of  con- 
now  and  an- 
n,  dear ;  you 
oom.    I  shall 
I  had  rather 
nybody." 
rushed   them 
lem.     *'  Why 

and  answered 
London,  and 
lid  not  realise 


A  New  Profession 


167 


at  the  time  that  it  is  clean  ridiculous  for  any- 
one even  to  simulate  a  sentimental  attachment 
towards  London. 

I  am  an  infrequent  kisser,  but  I  longed  for 
her  to  kiss  me. 


CHAPTER   XI 


VISTAS 

MRS.  MALLORY  had  a  flat  off  Victoria 
Street,  redolent  of  spikenard,  cedar 
chests,  and  sandalwood.  There  we  put  up. 
It  being  necessary  still  to  preserve  the  barrier, 
I  took  my  meals  downstairs  with  the  house- 
keeper— an  aggrieved-looking  widow — and  the 
hall  porter,  a  contrast  in  jollity. 

On  the  third  day  after  our  arrival  in  town, 
when  we  had  almost  finished  hanging  the  pict- 
ures in  the  room  in  Bond  Street,  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory  gave  a  little  inaugural  luncheon-party  to 
some  special  artistic  friends  and  critics.  It 
marked  an  epoch. 

I  had  helped  her  not  a  little  in  dressing  the 
rooms  ;  suggesting  here  a  bit  of  Oriental  drap- 
ery and  there  a  decorative  plate,  with  that 
half-unconscious  touch  of  the  aesthetic  spirit 
which  comets  natural  to  the  Italian  peasant. 


i68 


/ 


J 


;  off  Victoria 
2nard,  cedar 
we  put  up. 
e  the  barrier, 
ti  the  house- 
iow — and  the 

rival  in  town, 
ging  the  pict- 
et,  Mrs.  Mal- 
beon-party  to 
i  critics.      It 

1  dressing  the 
Oriental  drap- 
te,  with  that 
esthetic  spirit 
dian   peasant. 


/ 


Vistas 


169 


(Yes,  dear  Mr.  Critic,  I  mean  "  comes  natural," 
not  "comes  naturally."  Think  it  over  for 
yourself,  and  you  will  see  that  I  am  right,  and 
that  your  superfine  objection  is  positively 
wrong,  not  merely  hypercritical.)  But  on  the 
morning  of  the  lunch,  I  was  chiefly  employed 
in  looking  after  the  dining-room  and  arranging 
flowers,  for  which  I  had  always  a  native  talent. 
My  harmony  in  chrysanthemums  was  a  subtle 
success.  Mrs.  Mallory  was  charmed  with  the 
simplicity  of  my  decoration.  "  1 1  is  Japanesque, 
child,"  she  said ;  and  though  my  ideas  of  the 
Japanesque  were  then  somewhat  hazy,  I  kiaew 
from  her  tone  that  she  meant  it  to  be  taken  as 
the  highest  commendation,  and  I  flushed  with 
pleasure. 

Just  before  lunch-time,  two  ladies  arrived. 
They  sat  in  the  drawing-room  with  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory, while  I  was  still  unobtrusively  occupied 
in  flitting  about  the  room  and  settling  small 
details.  I  wore  my  Italian  costume,  which 
was,  as  it  were,  my  ofificial  uniform — barbaric 
richness  of  colour ;  a  frock  of  orange  and 
scarlet  striped  cotton,  with  a  broad  scarlet 
sash  knotted  about  my  waist,  and  a  bright- 
hued  neckerchief.  The  visitors  gossiped  with 
my  hostess   on  the  sofa.     Their  talk   turned 


170 


Rosalba 


much  on  the  recent  doings  of  Mrs.  Mallory's 
cousin  John.  John,  I  could  see,  was  an  im- 
portant person.  I  gathered  from  what  they 
let  drop  that  "poor  John"  had  been  sadly 
treated  by  an  elect  lady  unnamed,  to  whom 
he  had  been  engaged  for  close  on  three  years. 
The  elect  lady  had  jilted  him,  and  married  a 
guardsman,  which  term.,  I  suspected  from  the 
side-hints  they  gave,  must  mean  an  officer  in 
a  cavalry  regiment.  "  But  what  could  you 
expect  ?  "  Mrs.  Mallory  murmured,  in  a  depre- 
catory voice.  "John  is  a  capital  fellow,  we 
all  know,  and  as  good  as  gold ;  but  he  is  the 
prince  of  prigs.  What  high-spirited  girl  could 
ever  put  up  with  him  when  she  came  to  know 
him — really  to  know  him  ?  " 

"He  has  money  ?"    one  of  the  ladies  asked. 

"  Not  quite  what  one  calls  money  nowadays, 
but  enough  to  live  on — a  comfortable  com- 
petency, and  a  good  post  under  government. 
His  future  is  certain — and  splendid." 

"Still,  he  has  been  unfortunate  in  all  his 
love-affairs." 

"  Yes.  This,  you  know,  is  his  second  dis- 
appointment. She  kept  on  putting  the  mar- 
riage off  from  month  to  month  on  one  pretext 
after  another,  shilly-shallying,  toying  with  him, 

/ 


J- 


Vistas 


171 


[rs.  Mallory's 
:,  was  an  im- 
tn  what  they 
1  been  sadly 
led,  to  whom 
I  three  years, 
id  married  a 
;ted  from  the 
an  officer  in 
It  could  you 
d,  in  a  depre- 
al  fellow,  we 
Dut  he  is  the 
ted  girl  could 
ame  to  know 

ladies  asked. 
ey  nowadays, 
brtable  com- 
government. 
lid." 
,te  in  all  his 

5  second  dis- 
ting  the  mar- 
1  one  pretext 
ing  with  him, 


till  at  last  she  wrote  that  she  did  not  care  for 
him,  and  did  q.2sq,  for  the  guardsman." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  terrible  blow  to  your 
cousin's  amour  propre  !  " 

"  It  was — poor  John !  A  cavalry  officer 
above  all !  And  John,  who  prides  himself  on 
his  intellectual  qualities  ! " 

"  But  at  the  present  day,  dear  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory — there  are  so  many  girls,  you  know — and 
so  few  eligible  men.  A  man  who  can  marry 
is  quite  the  exception.  He  ought  to  suit  him- 
self. A  Girton  girl,  now — surely  he  might 
find  some  satisfactory  Girton  girl.  Many  of 
them,  one  would  think,  must  be  perfectly  prig- 
proof." 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  fancy  not.  A  Girton  girl  would 
be  the  worst  possible  choice.  When  prig 
meets  prig,  then  comes  the  tug  of  war." 

The  other  lady  spoke  :  her  tone  was  acid. 
"  For  my  part,"  she  said,  nursing  her  long 
tortoise-shell  glasses,  "  I  have  no  patience  with 
the  woman.  I  have  advised  him  tr  choose 
some  nice  bright  lassie — catching  h  young, 
you  know,  and  plastic — and  to  e.  ate  her 
up " 

"  Rosalba,"  Mrs.  Mallory  interpo'  "  we  've 
forgotten  one  thing  !     Run  out  tf       i  kitchen, 


i 


172 


Rosalba 


quick,  thpre  's  a  good  girl,  and  bring  me  a 
jug  of  cold  water  to  put  with  those  cactus- 
dahlias!" 

f  was  sorry  to  be  sent  away  just  then,  for  I 
was  interested  in  John  ;  but  I  ran  as  I  was 
bid.  By  the  time  I  came  back  with  the  jug 
of  water,  they  were  all  three  whispering.  A 
minute  later.  Sir  Hugh  Tachbrook  arrived, 
and  turned  the  conversation. 

Next  instant,  the  drawing-room  door  opened 
again,  and  the  housemaid  announced  "  Mr. 
John  Stodmarsh." 

He  entered  with  a  slow  tread,  as  of  a  man 
who  recognises  his  own  weight  and  worth. 
His  Future  weighed  upon  him.  In  his  hand 
he  held  a  glossy  black  silk  hat.  I  recognised 
him  at  once.  Eyes  set  far  apart ;  thin  lips ; 
keen,  solid  features :  he  was  my  old  friend  of 
the  Madonna  del  Monte. 

"I'm  not  late,  Linda,  I  hope,"  he  said,  in 
a  precise  and  cultivated  voice,  a  trifle  thin  and 
colourless,  advancing  to  Mrs.  Mallory,  and 
kissing  her  with  a  perfunctory  cousinly  kiss. 
"  I  was  detained  at  the  office — you  know  what 
official  slavery  is  like — important  dispatches." 

"On  the  contrary,  you  are  early,  John," 
Mrs.  Mallory  answered,  in  a  constrained  tone ; 


Vistas 


17  Z 


\  bring  me  a 
those  cactus- 

ist  then,  for  I 
ran  as  I  was 
with  the  jug 
lispering.  A 
rook  arrived, 

\  door  opened 
Dunced   "  Mr. 

as  of  a  man 

t   and  worth. 

In  his  hand 

I  recognised 

rt ;  thin  Hps  ; 

old  friend  of 

,"  he  said,  in 
;rifle  thin  and 
Mallory,  and 
:ousinly  kiss. 
>u  know  what 
;  dispatches." 
early,  John," 
trained  tone ; 


and  I  noted  that  his  arrival  seemed  to  cast 
a  reflected  ?ir  of  stiffness  over  the  entire 
meeting. 

He  shook  hands  in  a  courtly,  old-fashioned 
way  with  the  two  other  ladies  ;  then  his  eye 
lighted  on  me.  I  wondered  if  he  would  recog- 
nise me,  but  he  did  not.  T  was  not  likely  he 
would.  However,  he  looked  hard  at  me  and 
seemed  to  be  interested.  Instinctively  I  felt 
that  he  thought  me  pretty. 

"One  of  your  models?"  he  asked,  raising 
his  eyebrows,  but  dropping  his  voice  as  though 
the  existence  of  models  were  r.riarcely  proper. 

Mrs.  Mallory  nodded  as  iva.  "  But  more 
than  a  model,"  she  added,  with  her  subtle 
smile. 

"So  I  should  think,"  he  replied,  and  re- 
garded me  with  a  fixed  stare,  not  impolitely. 

Other  guests  arrived.  I  flitted  about  the 
room,  vaguely  aware  that  Mrs.  Mallory  desired 
to  keep  me  in  evidence.  Now  and  then  she 
called  me  on  some  frivolous  pretext.  She  and 
John  Stodmarsh  talked  much  to  one  another, 
and  then  looked  at  me.  I  felt  sure  they  were 
talking  about  me.  Though  he  had  grown  a 
little  older,  and  was  clad  now  in  a  tight-fitting 
frock-cQs^t  in  place  of  the  grey  tourist  suit,  my 


J. 


174 


Rosalba 


old  acquaintance  was  still  much  the  same  as 
ever — close-shaven,  clear-cut,  sleek,  with  logical 
features  and  a  strongly  marked  chin,  but  with 
more  of  intellect  than  of  emotion  in  his  face — 
a  typical,  solid,  cultivated  Englishman.  He 
held  his  head  erect.  His  manner  bore  the  stamp 
of  complete  confidence  in  an  assured  future. 

Two  or  three  times  before  lunch  was  an- 
nounced, he  lounged  over  near  where  I  flitted 
about  among  the  guests  and  took  a  hard  look 
at  me.  He  seemed  as  if  he  were  scheduling 
me.  Each  time  he  went  back  and  spoke  once 
more  to  Mrs.  Mallory,  with  his  thumbs  stuck 
in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat.  I  caught  a 
phrase  now  and  again—"  Might  be  moulded 
into  any  shape  one  desired  "  :  "  Extremely  at- 
tractive, Linda  "  :  "  Great  native  ability,  John  "  : 
"Different  with  those  Italians":  "Well,  the 
South,  you  know,  is  never  naturally  vulgar." 

But  Sir  Hugh  muttered  only  two  words, 
"  Young  guttersnipe  ! " 

By  and  by  they  all  went  in  to  lunch.  I 
loitered  behind  in  the  drawing-room  with  a 
strange  sense  of  impending  revolution.  My 
ears  burned  and  tingled.  I  do  not  know 
whether  it  was  because  in  the  iining-room 
they  were  talking  of  me. 


i 


Vistas 


175 


the  same  as 
k,  with  logical 
:hin,  but  with 

in  his  face — 
ishman.  He 
lore  the  stamp 
ired  future, 
unch  was  an- 
/here  I  flitted 
k  a  hard  look 
:re  scheduling 
id  spoke  once 
thumbs  stuck 
t.  I  caught  a 
t  be  moulded 
Extremely  at- 
ibility,  John": 
' :  "  Well,  the 
ally  vulgar." 
ly  two  words, 

to  lunch.  I 
r-room  with  a 
volution.  My 
do  not  know 
e    iining-room 


At  any  rate,  I  flung  myself  back  on  the 
sofa,  and  closed  my  eyes.  I  began  to  reflect 
that  life  was  wonderful,  and  that  I  had  seen 
a  great  deal  of  it. 

Presently,  almost  before  they  were  all 
seated,  Mrs.  Mallory  came  out  to  me,  closely 
followed  by  John  Stodmarsh.  "  Rosalba,"  she 
said  in  an  abrupt  voice,  "Mr.  Stodmarsh 
invites  you  to  come  in  and  lunch  with  us." 

"  I— I  don't  want  to  go,"  I  answered,  taken 
aback.  If  Mrs.  Mallory  had  never  erected 
the  barrier,  I  would  have  taken  all  my  meals 
with  her  as  a  m.atter  of  course ;  as  she  had 
not  asked  me  from  the  first,  I  did  not  care  to 
be  dragged  in  now  by  special  favour. 

"  But  you  've  got  to  come.  You  know,  you 
promised  to  obey  me  in  everything  reason- 
able." 

"Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond?"  I 
answered,  rising. 

John  Stodmarsh  started.  "  Why,  where 
did  you  get  that  from,  child?"  he  asked 
quickly. 

"  It  is  in  Shakespeare,"  I  answered.  "  Don't 
you  remember,  Shylock  says  it  to  Portia  when 
she  urges  him  to  mercy  ? " 

His   round    eyes   of    wond^jr    amused    me. 


176 


Rosalba 


"Then  —  you   have  read   Shakespeare?"   he 
murmured. 

I  smiled.  "Why  not?  Hath  not  an  It- 
alian eyes?  Hath  not  an  Italian  hands, 
organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affections,  pas- 
sions? If  you  prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed? 
If  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh?  If  you 
poison  us,  do  we  not  die  ?  And  if  you  give 
us  the  chance,  will  we  not  read  Shakespeare  ?  '* 

He  glanced  across  at  Mrs.  Mallory.  "  And 
hath  not  an  Italian  originality?"  he  exclaimed 
in  an  undertone. 

I  curtsied  my  thanks.  "  If  I  have  earned 
your  approbation—"  I  said.  "But  I  am 
keeping  your  lunch,  waiting." 

They  had  made  a  place  for  me  between  two 
guests  ;  I  took  my  seat  there,  with  John  Stod- 
marsh  beside  me.  As  I  sat  down,  he  beamed 
round  with  a  smile  on  the  other  visitors, 
and  murmured,  "  Experimental,  purely."  He 
thought  I  would  not  understand  what  he 
meant,  but  I  did.  Fortunately,  however,  I 
was  born  without  mauvaise  honte.  I  seated 
myself  as  composedly  as  if  I  had  always  dined 
at  the  high  table.  I  think  it  is  only  English 
people  who  feel  conscious  of  sitting  below  the 
salt.     For  myself,  in  spite  of  my  adventures 


Vistas 


177 


espeare?"   he 

,th  not  an  It- 
talian  hands, 
ifections,  pas- 
ire  not  bleed? 
ugh?  If  you 
nd  if  you  give 
Jhakespeare  ?  " 
illory.  '*  And 
'  he  exclaimed 

I  have  earned 
"But    I    am 

e  between  two 
ith  John  Stod- 
vn,  he  beamed 
other  visitors, 
,  purely."  He 
tand  what  he 
ly,  however,  I 
mte.  I  seated 
d  always  dined 
is  only  English 
tting  below  the 
my  adventures 


and  the  strange  bedfellows  they  had  forced 
iiI)on  me,  I  never  lost  the  ingrained  sense  of 
nobility  natural  to  the  daughter  of  a  man  who 
hac'  fought  for  Italy.  Sir  Hugh  glared  at  me, 
too  appalled  for  language. 

Just  at  first,  the  rest  of  the   company  ab- 
stained from  talking   much   to   me,    or  even 
from  obtrusively  watching  me  ;  though  I  was 
dimly  aware  that  they  cast  alarmed  side-glances 
in  my  direction  from  time  to  time,  no  doubt 
because    they    suspected    me    of    impossible 
evolutions  with  my  knife  and  fork  ;  they  were 
clearly  on  the  lookout  for  the  wildest  social 
solecisms.     Their  attitude  only  put  me  more 
at  my  ease.     It  would  never  occur  to  an  Italian 
peasant  that  his  "  table  manners  "  (as  English 
servants  say)  were  less  than  fit  for  the  ban- 
quets of  princes.     I  eat  my  smelt  au  gratin 
and  my  mutton  cutlet  in  unembarrassed  silence. 
My   perfect  sang-froid  relieved   the   tension! 
By  the  time  we  had   arrived   at  the  grouse, 
Mrs.  Mallory  and  her  friends  had  realised  the 
fact  that  I  was  not  a  savage. 

Then  I  began  to  talk.  In  five  minutes  the 
whole  table  was  listening  with  amusement. 
Even  John  Stodmarsh,  who  would  have  made 
an  impressive   judge,  laughed   at   my  sallies. 


178 


Rosalba 


Me  left  off  laying  clown  the  law  on  our  rela- 
tions with  France,  and  paused  to  hear  me. 

Phebe,  the  parlour-maid,  offered  me  trifle. 
I  helped  myself  to  a  little,  conscious  that  she 
offered  it  with  a  very  bad  grace  ;  it  hurt  Phebe's 
feelings  as  a  self-respecting,  high-class  English 
servant  to  wait  at  table  where  an  Italian  model 
was  seated  among  the  gentry.  Mrs.  Mallory 
glanced  at  me  as  I  began  to  eat  it.  "  That 's 
sudden  death,  Rosalba,"  she  murmured  in  a 
tone  of  warning. 

"  Then  I  shall  know  the  worst,"  I  answered, 
swallowing  a  spoonful  composedly. 

"  Come  back  and  tell  us,"  John  Stodmarsh 
put  in.  "  It  is  the  great  fault  of  travellers  who 
visit  that  bourne  that  they  never  return  to  let 
us  know  what  they  think  of  it." 

"  Dante  did,"  I  answered.  "  He  gave  us  a 
perfect  guide-book  to  the  Other  World.  But 
then,  his  account  is  not  exactly  encouraging." 

"  The  Inferno,  no ;  but  have  you  read  the 
Paradiso  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  the  Paradiso.  It  is 
all  too  vague.  I  should  want  a  heaven  more 
like  this  earth— a  heaven  where  things  are 
warmer  and  more  human  ;  a  heaven,  don't 
you  know,  with  grouse  and  trifle  in  it." 


V  on  our  rela- 
)  hear  me. 
red  me  trifle, 
cious  that  she 
t  hurt  Phebe's 
i-class  English 
I  Italian  model 
Mrs.  Mallory 
tit.  "That's 
mrmured  in  a 

:,"  I  answered, 
lly. 

hn  Stodmarsh 

travellers  who 

;r  return  to  let 

'  He  gave  us  a 

r  World.     But 

encouraging." 

:  you  read  the 

^aradiso.  It  is 
1  heaven  more 
ere  things  are 
heaven,  don't 
e  m  It. 


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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14S80 

(716)  872-4503 


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* 


Vistas 


179 


"  My  dear  Rosalba,"  Mrs.  Mallory  exclaimed, 
"  how  terribly  unpoetical  !  Grouse  and  trifle  ! 
My  child,  you  are  too  earthy.  If  you  hold  such 
opinions,  you  should  not  give  vent  to  them." 

"  I  always  say  what  I  think,"  I  answered. 
"That's  my  charm,  Mrs.  Mallory.  Besides, 
of  course,  there  are  heavens  and  heavens.  In 
the  heaven  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  if  you  are 
a  good  Moslem,  you  have  Circassian  slaves 
and  houris  to  wait  upon  you,  and  all  sorts  of 
good  things,  just  the  same  as  on  earth  here. 
I  believe  there  must  be  different  brands  of 
heaven  for  different  types  of  races  and  tempera- 
ments. I  should  want  my  heaven  where  there 
were  plenty  of  roses,  and  peaches  on  the  wall, 
and  lovely  grounds  with  flowery  promontories 
of  lilac  and  laburnum,  to  walk  up  and  down 
in,  just  like  Sir  Hugh's,  or  the  gardens  about 
Aladdin's  palace." 

John  Stodmarsh  turned  to  our  hostess  and 
exclaimed  in  French,  with  a  very  English  ac- 
cent, and  some  English  idiom,  "  Elle  sait 
beaucoup,  cette  enfant.  Ou  done  I'a-t-elle 
ramassd  ?  " 

"  Sur  la  grand'  route,  monsieur,"  I  answered, 
bobbing  at  him.  "  On  y  ramasse  bien  de 
choses,  quand  on  est  bon  chiffonier." 


i8o 


Rosalba 


"Mais— vous  parlez  fran9ais  aussi?"  he 
cried,  more  and  more  astonished. 

"  Mais  naturellement,"  I  answered.  "  Did 
I  not  give  dramatic  representations  in  France— 
(t  la  belle  Hoile—lox  more  than  a  twelvemonth  ? " 

He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Mallory.     She  glanced 
at  him.     His  glance   said,    "She   is  extraor- 
dinary."    Her  glance  said,  "  I  told  you  so. 
Then  he  spoke  aloud.     "  She  will  do,"  he  said 

slowly. 

"  For  what?"  I  asked. 
"  For  me,"  he  answered. 
It  struck  me  long  after  as  characteristically 
mannish  that  he  should  say  so  glibly,  "  She 
will  do  for  me,"  without  waiting  to  ask  himself, 
"  Shall  I  do  for  her  ?"— a  question  which  men 
in  their  lordly  fashion  seldom  seem  to  hit  upon. 

The  parlour-maid  offered  me  wine.  "  No, 
thanks,  Phebe!"  I  said,  laying  one  finger 
across  my  glass.  ^^ 

"You  may  take  a  little,  Rosalba,  Mrs. 
Mallory  put  in.     "  It  is  hock— very  light." 

"  I  never  take  it,"  I  answered  firmly. 

"Prejudice?"  Sir  Hugh  asked,  relenting. 

"  Oh  no,"  I  replied  ;  "  but  I  have  seen  the 

evil  of  it." 

They  all  burst  out  laughing.     I  was  put  on 


aussi?"  he 

2red.  "  Did 
i in  France — 
elvemonth  ? " 
She  glanced 
I  is  extraor- 
;old  you  so." 
I  do,"  he  said 


racteristically 
glibly,  "  She 
o  ask  himself, 
)n  which  men 
B  to  hit  upon, 
wine.  "  No, 
g    one  finger 

osalba,"   Mrs. 

ery  light." 

firmly. 

d,  relenting. 

tiave  seen  the 

J 
j 

I  was  put  on 


Vistas 


i8i 


L 


my  mettle.  "  Oh,  if  you  think  me  prejudiced," 
I  went  on,  "  I  '11  take  half  a  glass  to  show  my 
open  mind. — The  nectar,  Hebe!  I  mean, 
Phebe ! " 

There  was  a  moment's  pause ;  then  John 
Stodmarsh  spoke  again.  "Where  did  you 
learn  all  these  things  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

I  poised  an  olive  on  the  end  of  my  fork  and 
answered,  laughing,  "At  the  university  of 
Salamanca." 

"  Salamanca  ?  Then  you  have  been  in  Spain 
too?" 

"Is  Salamanca  in  Spain?"  I  asked  inno- 
cently. "  Well,  I  never  knew  that.  I  thought, 
like  Bagdad,  it  was  nowhere  in  particular. 
How  odd  it  should  be  in  Spain — oUfaitant 
de  chdteaux  /  " 

Their  eyes  met  again.  They  were  trying  to 
examine  me. 

"This  is  very  extraordinary,  Linda,"  he 
went  on,  half  aside.  "  English  girls  who  have 
been  to  good  schools  know  absolutely  nothing. 
Why,  there  is  my  niece  Phyllis — from  Miss 
Buss's,  at  Hampstead — I  spoke  to  her  the 
other  day  of  the  Gerusalemme  and  the  Orlando 
Furioso,  and  I  assure  you,  she  had  never  even 
heard  of  Tasso  or  Ariosto." 


i8j 


Rosalba 


"  Mauvaise  Education  !  "  I  murmured,  half 
below  my  breath.  "  La  ville— les  pensionnats  ! 
But,  in  the  open  air,  on  the  highroads — with 
nature  all  round  one — "  and  I  ate  my  olive. 

John  Stodmarsh  surveyed  me  once  more 
with  a  curious  amused  smile  playing  round 
the  corners  of  his  doctrinaire  mouth.  "  There 
may  be  some  truth  in  that,"  he  drawled  out 
slowly ;  "  at  any  rate,  you  appear  to  justify 
your  doctrine  in  your  own  person.  But  don't 
you  think  it  would  do  a  scholar  educated  in 
that  open-air  university  of  which  you  speak  a 
certain  amount  of  good  to  take  a  course  of 
lessons  in  some  more  regular  school — to  get 
the  ordinary  scholar^tic  training  superadded  to 
her  peculiar  line  of  knowledge  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  might  finish  her  education,  no 
doubt,"  I  answered,  offhand.  "  Though,  for 
my  own  part,  I  would  rather  learn  in  the  fields 
and  on  the  hills  than  stew  in  a  schoolroom." 

"  Each  has  its  use,"  John  Stodmarsh  mused 
oracularly. 

*'  No  doubt,"  I  replied,  and  helped  myself  to 

an  apricbt. 


/ 


irmured,  half 
pensionnats ! 
hroads — with 
:  my  olive, 
e  once  more 
laying  round 
uth.    "  There 
drawled  out 
ear  to   justify 
n.     But  don't 
r  educated  in 
1  you  speak  a 
e  a  course  of 
chool — to  get 
juperadded  to 

education,    no 
"  Though,  for 
-n  in  the  fields 
choolroom." 
dmarsh  mused 

:lped  myself  to 


/ 


/ 


I 


CHAPTER   XII 

SIGNED,    SEALED,    AND    DELIVERED 

AFTER  lunch  we  adjourned  to  the  room 
in  Bond  Street  where  the  exhibition 
was  to  be  held.  I  flitted  about  the  place  as 
usual,  dancing  here,  dancing  there,  and  put- 
ting last  touches  to  the  show;  while  Mrs. 
Mallory  and  her  friends  inspected  the  pictures. 
Some  of  them  held  their  heads  judicially  on 
one  side,  a  little  way  off ;  others  peered  close 
into  the  canvas  with  critical  eye-glasses.  From 
time  to  time  I  caught  fragments  of  their  modu- 
lated murmur.  I  have  terrible  ears,  and  terri- 
bly quick  perceptions.  All  through  life  I  have 
overheard  much  that  was  not  meant  for  me. 
Through  the  Babel  of  sounds  now,  stray  sen- 
tences detached  themselves.  Half  of  them, 
of  course,  were  about  the  pictures — the  usual 
would-be  connoisseurish  and  laudatory  talk  of 
those  who  have  learnt  the  art  of  simulating 

183 


\ 


1 84 


Rosalba 


conversation.  But  the  other  half  were  not. 
They  concerned  a  person,  described  as  "  She"  ; 
I  thought  that  I  could  conjecture  about  whom 
they  were  speaking. 

"  The  Godiva  is  charming."     "  High  lights 
on  the  shoulders  overdone,  perhaps."     "  But 
don't  you  think  the  horse's  off  leg—"    "  Has 
the  manners  of  a  lady."     "Just  a  touch  more 
blue,  I  fancy."     "Not  green  enough,  is  it?" 
"  Could  hardly  believe  it ;  why,  Mrs.  Mallory 
says  she  was  v»andering  about  the  roads — " 
"That   exquisite   bit  of    landscape."      "The 
figures  are  al'  right,  but  the  trees— "     "  My 
dear,  how  unspeakable  ! "    "A  trifle  too  pink ! '' 
"  Between  ourselves,  I  call  it  out  of  drawing." 
"  Bowled  John  Stodmarsh  over  ;  I  never  saw  a 
man   so   completely  floored —  "     "  But  then, 
nobody  can  render  trees  like  yon,  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory."    "  My  dear  Linda,  it 's  quite  the  finest 
bit  of  figure-painting  you  've  done  since—" 
"  So    quaint !    so    gipsy  -  like  !  "       "  Pique,    I 
should  say  ! "     "  No,  not  pique.     It  often  hap- 
pens so.     You  see,  a  man  has  been  living  in  a 
strained  emotional  state,  indulging  his  love-in- 
stinct ;  and  all  at  once  his  hopes  and  expecta- 
tions are  frustrated.     What  more  natural  than 
for  him  to  transfer  to  a  new  object  the  flow  of 


Signed,  Sealed,  and  Delivered     185 


"  But 
"  Has 


if  were  not. 
das  "She"; 
about  whom 

High  lights 
aps.' 

touch  more 
>ugh,  is  it  ?  " 
virs,  Mallory 
he  roads — " 
pe."  "The 
.s_"  "My 
le  too  pink ! " 

of  drawing." 
[  never  saw  a 

"But  then, 
m,  Mrs.  Mal- 
ite  the  finest 
3ne  since — " 
"  Pique,  I 
It  often  hap- 
en  living  in  a 
ig  his  love-in- 

and  expecta- 
;  natural  than 
ct  the  flow  of 


feelings  which  have  hitherto —  "  "  Such  splen- 
dour of  colour !  Such  wealth  of  imagina- 
tion!" "As  clever  as  she  can  hold."  "Too 
grey ;  quite  too  grey — especially  in  the  fore- 
ground ! "  "  But  then,  consider  the  ante- 
cedents. For  my  part,  I  should  be  afraid —  " 
"  A  certain  originality  of  speech  and  manner." 
"  Oh,  naturally  well  bred  ;  with  training,  you 
know,  and  education — "  "  Plastic,  so  plas- 
tic !"     "  And  he  means  to  educate  her." 

I  half  guessed  what  it  all  meant ;  but  I  flitted 
about  between  the  easels  pretending  to  look 
unconscious. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  all  the  rest  had  gone, 
John  Stodmarsh  remained.  "  It  is  kind  of  you, 
Linda,"  he  said,  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and 
his  hands  behind  him,  "  to  undertake  the  ar- 
rangement of  this  little  business  for  me.  Let 
me  see  " — he  pulled  out  his  watch  :  an  ances- 
tral gold  watch,  with  big  seals  attached — "just 
four !  At  half-past  I  have  an  important  ap- 
pointment with  Sir  Everard  at  the  office,  and 
one  must  not  keep  a  Secretary  of  State  wait- 
ing. A  hansom  will  whisk  me  there  in  five 
minutes.  That  leaves  twenty-five — which 
ought  to  be  ample.  I  like  to  strike  while  the 
iron  is  hot.     As  psychologist  I  have  observed 


\ 


i86 


Rosalba 


that  the  apt  emotional  moment  recurs  infre- 
quently." 

"  Rosalba,"  Mrs.  Mallory  said,  with  a  tinge 
of  gentle  hesitation  in  her  voice,  "  come  with 
me  into  the  back  room  here." 

I  followed  her,  more  than  half  aware  what 
was  the  nature  of  the  "  little  business  "  she  was 
about  to  propose  to  me. 

She  seated  me  by  her  side  on  the  sofa  and 
took  my  hands  in  her  own,  as  she  was  fond  of 
doing.  I  think  since  the  barrier  prevented 
her  from  kissing  me,  she  liked  to  make  use  of 
the  only  other  outlet  permitted  for  her  feelings. 
She  looked  lovely  in  her  loose  pale-rose-spotted 
tea-gown.  "  My  dear  child,"  she  began,  in  a 
constrained  tone,  "  it  has  struck  me  more  than 
once  since  you  came  to  me  that  I  have  a  duty 
to  perform  to  you." 

"  Not  at  all,  dear  Mrs.  Mallory  ! "  I  answered, 
nestling  towards  her  with  a  vague  premonition 
of  her  meaning.  "  I  dropped  from  the  clouds 
upon  you,  a  mere  waif  and  stray  :  you  have 
been  kind  and  good  to  me  ;  but  you  owe  me 
no  duty." 

She  demurred.  "Still,  you  have  been  of 
use  to  me  too,  my  child.  You  have  made  my 
picture." 


/ 


ecurs  infre- 

'ith  a  tinge 
'  come  with 

iware  what 
is  "  she  was 

le  sofa  and 
^^as  fond  of 
prevented 
nake  use  of 
ler  feelings, 
ose-spotted 
began,  in  a 
;  more  than 
lave  a  duty 

I  answered, 
)remonition 
the  clouds 
:  you  have 
ou  owe  me 

ve  been  of 
^e  made  my 


Signed,  Sealed,  and  Delivered    187 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  that,"  I  replied,  with  a  cer- 
tain tightening  of  the  muscles  of  the  throat. 
"If  I  had  not  been  of  use,  how  could  I  have 
consented  to  remain  with  you?"  And  I 
rubbed  myself  against  her  with  a  cat-like 
sense  of  pleasure  in  the  mere  proximity. 

She  pressed  my  hand  harder  and  gazed  into 
my  swimming  eyes  with  a  curious  surprise. 
"  What  an  odd  little  thing  you  are  ! "  she  cried. 
"  I  never  can  make  out  where  you  got  all  these 
feelings." 

"  I  fancy  feelings  are  mostly  born  in  one." 

"  I  believe  they  must  be.  But,  Rosalba,  this 
is  what  Mr.  Stodmarsh  —  and  I  —  want  to 
speak  to  you  about.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to 
you  that  you  cannot  always  be  a  model  ?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Mallory,  what  a  question  to 
ask  a  butterfly !  'T  is  like  the  ant  and  the 
grasshopper  in  the  fable.  I  am  a  grasshopper, 
voyez-votis,  sauterelle,  sauterelle — flitting  here, 
flitting  there — a  touch,  and  pouf,je  saute.  I 
make  it  a  religion  to  take  no  heed  for  the 
morrow." 

Mrs.  Mallory  looked  grave.  She  was  not 
born  in  Bohemia.  "  All  the  more  reason, 
then,  dear,  why  I  should  take  heed  for  it  on 
your  account.     You  are  growing  towards  wo- 


i88 


Rosalba 


manhood,  my  child,  and  you  arc  much,  very 
much,  too  old  for  your  years.  Moreover,  you 
are  clever.  Does  it  ever  strike  you  that  per- 
haps you  have  genius  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  it  does,"  I  answered,  stroking 
her  soft  hand ;  "  but  I  know  I  can  make  up 
little  plays  and  am  a  good  mimic." 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  you  will  do  when 
you  grow  up  to  be  a  woman  ?" 

"  Go  on  the  stage,  I  suppose,"  I  announced 
in  haste ;  "  or  else  write  books ;  or  else — 
marry  somebody.  Quite  the  proper  number 
of  things,  you  see — three  courses  open  to 
me. 

"  Rosalba,  cant  you  be  serious  a  minute  ?" 

I  started.  "  Dear  Mrs.  Mallory,  don't  look 
at  me  like  that  with  those  reproachful  eyes,  or 
I  shall  burst  out  crying.  I  am  appallingly 
serious.  I — well,  I  try  to  be  flippant  so  as  to 
keep  my  heart  up." 

She  looked  again  into  my  eyes  and  saw  it 
was  true.  I  was  holding  back  my  tears  with 
a  violent  effort. 

"  Go  on  the  stage  —  no,"  she  went  on, 
"  with  your  temperament  that  would  be  a  pity  ; 
I  foresee  grave  dangers  for  you.  Write  books — 
that  must  be  as  your  development  may  decide. 


Signed,  Sealed,  and  Delivered     189 


much,  very 
reover,  you 
u  that  per- 

:d,  stroking 
n  make  up 

ill  do  when 

announced 
;  or  else — 
)er  number 
2S  open   to 

minute  ?" 
,  don't  look 
iful  eyes,  or 

appallingly 
ant  so  as  to 

and  saw  it 
^  tears  with 

e  went  on, 
Id  be  a  pity  ; 
rite  books — 
may  decide. 


But  the  third  alternative  is,  after  all,  the  most 
probable — marry. " 

*'  It  is  woman's  sphere,  they  say,"  I  answered, 
blinking.  I  had  read  that  mysterious  catch- 
word in  the  papers. 

•'  Now,  whatever  happens  to  you,  we  have 
this  to  consider.  You  ought,  with  your  abili- 
ties, to  have  a  more  regular  education." 

"  I  have  had  the  best,"  I  answered ;  for  on 
that  point  I  was  positive. 

"  Still,  it  might  be  supplemented ;  and  Mr. 
Stodmarsh  desires  to  supplement  it.  He  has 
made  a  proposition  to  me.  He  wants  you  to 
let  him  undertake  the  charge  of  your  edu- 
cation." 

"  Send  me  to  school  ?  " 

"  Yes,  send  you  to  school,  and  make  a  lady 
of  you." 

I  looked  up,  almost  hurt.  "  No,  no ;  not 
that ;  not  make  a  lady ;  there,  again,  I  believe 
I  was  born  so." 

Mrs.  Mallory  sat  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa  and 
bent  over  me.  *'  You  are  right,  Rosalba.  I 
spoke  hastily.  Bring  out  more  clearly  the  lady 
within  you,  I  meant.  Do  you  think  you  would 
care  to  accept  his  offer  ?  " 

I  paused  and  hesitated.     My  experiences  on 


r 


igo 


Rosalba 


the  road  had  made  me  in  many  ways  older 
than  my  age.  "  It  is  a  big  question,"  I  an- 
swered. "  There  are  so  many  things  to  con- 
sider. Of  course,  I  have  not  been  brought  up 
like  other  girls.  I  don't  know  whether,  after 
the  free  life  I  have  led,  I  could  be  mewed  up 
in  a  classroom,  could  stand  the  restraints,  the 
iron  clamps  of  a  school ;   and  I  don't  know 

whether " 

"  Whether  what  ?  " 

I  felt  my  cheeks  burn.  *'  Whether — I  could 
ever — care  for  Mr.  Stodmarsh." 

Mrs.  Mallory  started.  "What  a  strange 
child  it  is !  Then  you  have  guessed  what  he 
means,  Rosalba  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  fool,  dear  Mrs.  Mallory.  Partly 
guessed  it ;  partly  overheard  various  scraps  cf 
conversation.  My  ears  are  too  quick.  And 
you  yourself  said,  '  The  third  alternative  is  the 
most  probable — marry.'  " 

She  smoothed  my  hair  with  her  hands. 
"You  are  right,  my  dear  child.  He  wants 
you  to — to  care  for  hi  in." 

"  Of  course,"  I  answered.  "  If  it  were  not 
for  that,  how  could  I  consider  his  proposal  ? 
He  would  not  want  to  educate  me  except  for 
some  good  reason ;  I  must  be  able  to  makq 


r  ways  older 
:stion,"  I  an- 
lings  to  con- 
m  brought  up 
whether,  after 
36  mewed  up 
estraints,  the 
don't  know 


:her — I  could 

at  a  strange 
;ssed  what  he 

llory.     Partly 

ious  scraps  cf 

quick.     And 

irnative  is  the 

I  her  hands. 
L     He  wants 

[f  it  were  not 
his  proposal  ? 
me  except  for 
able  to  make 


Signed,  Sealed,  and  Delivered     191 

him  some  return  for  his  kindness.  The  ques- 
tion is — suppose,  when  I  grow  older,  I  don't 
desire  to  marry  him  ?  " 

She  seized  my  arm,  half  frightened.  "  Ro- 
salba,"  she  said,  ^rawing  my  head  towards  her 
lap,  "you  are  alarmingly  wise  for  your  years. 
I  dare  n't  even  tell  John  Stodmarsh  how  fully 
you  understand  and  enter  into  his  plai..  He 
would  be  shocked  at  your  understanding  it. 
But  since  you  do  understand,  you  are  quite 
right  in  considering  this  question.  Now,  my 
dear  child,  I  want  to  speak  earnestly  to  you. 
You  have  great  gifts,  and  I  think  they  should 
be  cultivated.  You  have  great  abilities,  and  I 
think  they  should  be  developed.  John  Stod- 
marsh is  a  most  honourable  and  excellent  man, 
much  respected  by  all  who  know  him " 

"  So  much  so  that  they  call  him  the  prince 
of  prigs,"  I  murmured  half  inaudibly. 

She  held  her  breath,  a  little  distressed.  I 
repented  me  of  my  saying.  "  But  I  can  see  he 
is  a  gentleman,  and  an  able  man,  and  one  who 
would  always  do  what  was  right,"  I  added. 

"  He  is.  And  what  you  have  to  ask  your- 
self is  this  :  do  you  think  you  could  undertake, 
if  he  sent  you  to  school,  to  work  hard  and  try 
to  fit  yourse'f  for  the  position  in  life " 


192 


Rosalba 


"  To  which  he  might  be  pleased  to  promote 
me  ?  Like  the  Grand  Sultan  with  a  favourite 
slave.     Well,  I  will  think  about  it,  dear  lady  ! " 

She  pursed  her  mouth  at  me  wistfully.  A 
kiss  trembled  there,  irresolute.  I  could  see 
she  was  deeply  anxious  to  do  what  she  judged 
to  be  for  my  best.  After  all,  I  was  very  young. 
I  tried  to  think  for  myself,  but  it  is  difficult  for 
a  girl,  before  the  Great  Awakening  has  come 
upon  her,  to  realise  what  such  an  engagement 
means.  I  buried  my  face  in  Mrs.  Mallory's 
sleeve.    "  Do  you  wish  it  ?  "  I  asked,  trembling. 

"  If  you  can  promise  it  without  wronging 
yourself.      It  is  such  a  rare  chance  in  life  for 


ou. 


1  fiung  myself  upon  her.  *'  You  dear  : "  I 
cried,  "I  can't  bear  to  go  away  from  you. 
But  \{you  wish  it— wh>,  to  please  you,  I  would 
marry-  twenty  John  Stodmarshes." 

She  seemed  somehow  to  feel  that  the  bare 
acceptance  of  that  hypothetical  position  broke 
down  the  barrier ;  for  ail  at  once,  with  a  sud- 
den yielding,  she  clasped  me  to  her  bosom, 
and  for  the  first  time  kissed  me. 

•*  I  never  had  a  daughter,  dear,"  she  whis- 
pered.    "  Now  you  shall  be  a  daughter  to  me." 

I  was  very  happy  because  Mrs.  Mallory  had 


Signed,  Sealed,  and  Delivered    193 


1  to  promote 
h  a  favourite 
,  dear  lady  ! " 
vistfuUy.     A 

I  could  see 
Lt  she  judged 
5  very  young, 
s  difficult  for 
ng  has  come 

engagement 
rs.  Mallory's 
id,  trembling. 
)ut  wronging 
ice  in  life  for 

fou  dear  :"  I 
ly  from  you. 
:  you,  I  would 

that  the  bare 
position  broke 
e,  with  a  sud- 
o  her  bosom, 

ar,"  she  whis- 
ighter  to  me." 
5.  Mallory  had 


kissed  me.  I  think  at  the  time  that  episode 
counted  for  much  more  with  me  than  John 
Stodmarsh's  offer. 

She  paused  awhile,  letting  her  hand  lie  in 
mine.  "And  if  you  should  find,"  she  went 
on,  '*  when  you  are  older,  and  better  able  to 
judge  of  these  things,  that  you  cannot  give 
John  Stodmarsh  your  heart,  I  am  sure  he  is 
too  good  and  too  honourable  a  man  to  insist 
upon  your  accepting  him." 

"Dear  signora!"  I  cried,  "a  bargain  is  a 
bargain.  If  he  educates  me,  it  is  with  a  par- 
ticular condition.  If  I  accept  the  education,  I 
accept  the  condition.  I  have  considered  the 
matter,  and  I  promise  to  take  him.  Suppose 
you  wish  me  to  go  to  school,  to  school  I  go  at 
once,  even  though  it  means  that  I  must  go  away 
from  you.  But — I  may  come  and  be  painted 
in  my  holidays,  may  n't  I  ?  " 

"  You  may  ! "  she  cried,  clasping  one  arm 
around  me.  "  Rosalba,  you  have  twined  your 
tendrils  somehow  round  my  heart ;  I  shall 
want  to  be  painting  you  always," 

She  led  me  to  the  door.  Her  suavities  of 
outline  as  she  moved  were  lovely.  "John," 
she  said,  entering  the  other  room,  "  Rosalba 
consents," 


»3 


194 


Rosalba 


He  laid  down  a  book  he  had  taken  out  of 
the  little  black  bag  he  always  carried— I  looked 
at  it  afterwards,  and  saw  it  was  Poor-Law 
Reform — with  a  somewhat  distracted  air. 
"  Oh,  does  she  ? "  he  said  at  last,  nursing  his 
left  knee.  "  Well,  I  am  glad  of  that.— Rosalba, 
I  wish  you  to  consider  me  henceforth  as  your 
guardian. — I  will  discuss  the  question  of  a 
suitable  school  with  you  to-morrow,  Linda. 
Meanwhile,  perhaps  you  will  oblige  me  by 
getting  this  child  civilised  garments,  will  you  ? 
Nothing  too  fine,  you  know;  simple,  lady- 
like English  garments.  Without  pretending 
to  be  an  expert  in  ladies'  costume,  I  would 
venture  to  suggest  as  a  basis  grey  cashmere — I 
think  it  is  called  cashmere— a  sort  of  soft, 
drabby,  self-coloured  woollen  material.  You 
understand  my  wishes  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mallory  demurred.  "  Oh,  John,  grey 
cashmere  would  not  suit  her  complexion  at  all. 
It  would  simply  crush  her.  Fancy  that  deep 
brown  skin  and  those  big  dark  eyes  buried  in 
grey  cashmere  !  She  must  have  a  touch  of 
scarlet.  Leave  that  to  me.  It  is  positively 
necessary."  ^ 

"  I  bow  submission  to  your  artistic  opinion. 
A  touch  of  scarlet  if  you  will ;  a  very  modest 


Signed,  Sealed,  and  Delivered     195 


taken  out  of 
sd — I  looked 
IS  Poor -Law 
jtracted  air. 
t,  nursing  his 
It. — Rosalba, 
forth  as  your 
uestion  of  a 
rrow,  Linda, 
blige  me  by 
Its,  will  you  ? 
simple,  lady- 
It  pretending 
Lime,  I  would 
'  cashmere — I 
sort  of  soft, 
aterial.     You 


small  touch  of  scarlet  ;  just  as  much  as  you 
think  absolutely  indispensable  to  suit  her  col- 
ouring. You  are  a  judge  of  these  things. 
But  take  my  grey  as  the  keynote.  You  catch 
at  what  I  mean  ?  A  sort  of  modified  quaker- 
dom. — She  will  suit  very  well,  Linda  ;  very 
well  indeed  " — this  half  aside.  "  She  has  wit, 
sprightliness,  verve,  originality.  With  a  little 
education —  Dear  me,  I  have  only  just  time 
to  get  down  to  Whitehall.  Good  morning, 
Linda."  A  perfunctory  kiss  again.  "Good 
morning,  Rosalba."  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
kiss  me  too ;  but  he  changed  his  mind,  and 
held  his  hand  out.  "  I  will  see  you  again  to- 
morrow, when  we  can  arrange  everything." 

And,  with  a  courtly  bow,  he  was  off  to  his 
hansom. 


h,  John,  grey 
plexion  at  all. 
icy  that  deep 
iyes  buried  in 
e  a  touch  of 
t  is  positively 

-tistic  opinion. 
I  very  modest 


it 


r.^^^^iJ'^=i'-4.?,t.ii^a£fjii'?-^^^/^>.-!v 


CHAPTER  XIII 


CUPPING    MY    WINGS 

IT  is  certain  that  Miss  Westmacott's  High 
School  at  Fellows  Road,  South   H amp- 
stead,  was  a  typically  British  institution.    Just 
consider  its  Britannicisms — its  flagrant  Britan- 
nicity.     In  the  first  place,  it  described  itself  as 
a  "High  School  for    Young    Ladies."     That 
was  a  beautiful  compromise  !     There  are  High 
Schools  for  Girls  which  have  achieved  success  ; 
and  success  in  England  means  many  imitators. 
But  Miss  Westmacott's  school  added  to  the  imi- 
tative title  the  truly  British  variant  (so  rich  in 
snobbery)  *'  for  Young  Ladies."     Parents  who 
might  have  hesitated  to  entrust  their  Ethel  and 
their  Gwendoline  to  a  High  School  for  mere 
Girls  could  safely  confide  them  to  Miss  West- 
macott's teaching  in  an  atmosphere  breathed 
only  by  Young  Ladies.     Then,  again,  in  the 
selfsame  spirit,  it  spoke  of  Fellows  Road  as  in 


196 


( 


L 


Clipping  my  Wings 


197 


icott's  High 
outh  Hamp- 
tution.  Just 
grant  Britan- 
ibed  itself  as 
dies."  That 
ere  are  High 
:ved  success ; 
iny  imitators, 
ied  to  the  imi- 
tit  (so  rich  in 
Parents  who 
eir  Ethel  and 
ool  for  mere 
0  Miss  West- 
lere  breathed 
again,  in  the 
^s  Road  as  in 

'/ 


South  Hampstead.  That  is  another  sweet 
touch  !  A  feeling  exists  that  Hampstead  is 
"  cultivated,"  Hampstead  is  quietly  gentle- 
manly ;  so,  if  you  live  within  a  mile  and  a  half 
of  anything  that  can  by  any  stretch  of  courtesy 
be  reckoned  as  Hampstead,  you  allude  to  your 
street  as  being  in  "South  Hampstead,"  or 
"  East  Hampstead,"  or  "  North  Hampstead," 
or  "Hampstead  Valley"  All  these  little 
touches  were  characteristic  of  Miss  Westma- 
cott's  type.  The  keynote  of  her  establishment 
was  its  selectness,  its  exclusiveness,  its  high, 
lady-like  tone — in  one  word,  its  snobbishness. 

I  never  felt  myself  adapted  for  Miss  West- 
macott's. 

My  guardian — that  was  how  I  was  to  de- 
scribe John  Stodmarsh  '  future — conveyed 
me  there  in  person,  aftei  Mrs.  Mallory  had 
transformed  my  outer  woman  from  an  Italian 
model  to  a  model  English  girl — I  mean  Young 
Lady.  We  descended  at  the  door,  boxes  and 
all.  A  prim  housemaid  ushered  us  into  a  prim 
parlour. 

After  a  decent  interval,  during  which  I  sat 
trembling  on  the  edge  of  my  chair.  Miss  West- 
macott  entered.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
I  felt  really  frightened.     I  knew  my  troubles 


198 


Rosalba 


were  about  to  begin.  Born  and  bred  in  Bo- 
hemia, I  shivered  to  find  myself  on  the  coasts 
of  the  Phihstines. 

I  raised  my  eyes  and  looked  at  her.     Miss 
Westmacott  was  an  anachronism,  in  a  crimped 
cap  and  pepper-and-salt   ringlets.      Her  face 
was  not  long,  however,  but  round  and  sleek, 
and    eminently    placid.      A   faint   moustache 
fringed  her  upper  lip.    Her  under  lip  protruded 
like  a  camel's.     The  nose  was  feebly  Roman. 
She  wore  a  settled  smile  of  professional  amia- 
bility.    It  was  the  smile  begotten  of  the  long 
practice  of  interviewing  the  parent.     Like  the 
rain  from  heaven,  it  fell  on  all  alike.     Her  fig- 
ure was  not  exactly  stout,  but  massive.     I  saw 
at  once  how  John  Stodmarsh  had  selected  Her 
Imperturbability  as  the  director  of  my  educa- 
tion.    Knowing  me  to  be  a  wild  and  wayward 
little  Italian  vagabond,  he  wished  to  mitigate 
my  native  exuberance  by  placing  me  with  a 
lady  of  reposeful  manners  and  of  unblemished 
respectability.    And  he  succeeded.    Her  prim- 
ness was  supernatural.     I  do  not  know  the  se- 
cret of  Miss  Westmacott's  antecedents,  but  I 
have  always  suspected  that  she  must  have  been 
the  outcome  of  an  early  indiscretion  on  the  part 
of  Miss  Mangnall  with  Mr.  Pinnock.    It  dawned 


bred  in  Bo- 
n  the  coasts 

her.     Miss 
in  a  crimped 
Her  face 
1  and  sleek, 
moustache 
ip  protruded 
;bly  Roman, 
ssional  amia- 
of  the  long 
it.     Like  the 
ce.     Her  fig- 
ssive.     I  saw 
selected  Her 
)f  my  educa- 
and  wayward 
i  to  mitigate 
ig  me  with  a 
unblemished 
I.    Her  prim- 
know  the  se- 
;edents,  but  I 
List  have  been 
an  on  the  part 
;k.    It  dawned 


Clipping  my  Wings 


199 


on  me  soon  that  Miss  Westmacott,  indeed,  was 
the  last  of  her  class — what  modern  science 
calls  a  Survival.  I  doubt  if  there  now  exists  a 
single  schoolmistress  like  her.  I  say  "  exists," 
for  though  I  am  not  •'ware  whether  she  is  still 
alive  or  not,  I  often  tear  I  must  have  been  the 
death  of  Miss  Westmacott. 

Yet  even  an  anachronism  must  accommodate 
itself  somehow  to  the  alien  century  in  which  it 
finds  itself  dumped  down.  The  survival  sur- 
vives, after  all,  like  the  rest  of  us,  by  adapta- 
tion to  its  environment.  That  is  why  Miss 
Westmacott,  essentially  a  product  of  the 
Georgian  age,  called  her  establishment  a  High 
School  instead  of  an  Academy  ;  and  that  is 
why  we  learned  Latin  and  Algebra  and  other 
masculine  subjects  which  Her  Imperturbabil- 
ity in  her  heart  of  hearts  despised  as  "  un- 
womanly." She  regretted  samplers.  But  here 
I  anticipate. 

Miss  Westmacott  put  her  folding  eye-glasses 
on  the  bridge  of  her  feebly  Roman  nose,  and 
regarded  me  with  a  fixed,  though  amiable, 
stare,  as  if  I  were  a  botanical  specimen.  I 
squirmed  a  little  as  I  stood,  in  order  to  suggest 
the  fact  that  I  belonged  in  reality  to  the  ani- 
mal kingdom.     Her  face  was  mildly  critical. 


i  1 


) 


<»<-«-» 


Rosalba 


"  So  this  is  your  ward,  Mr.  Stodmarsh?"  she 
began  with  her  vapid  smile,  after  a  long  in- 
spection.    "  Well — I  am  glad  to  receive  her." 

She  said,  "  I  am  glad  to  receive  her  "  ;  but 
her  stare  and  the  intonation  of  her  voice  im- 
plied, "  After  all,  there  is  nothing  so  very  out- 
rageous about  her  ! "  I  knew  from  her  air  that 
John  Stodmarsh  had  prepared  her  mind  before- 
hand for  receiving  a  veritable  Italian  savage. 

"  Oh,  I  can  behave  like  a  Christian,"  I  inter- 
posed, smiling. 

Miss  Westmacott  eyed  me  with  mai'sive  se- 
renity. **  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  replied,  in  a 
very  deliberate  voice,  her  under  lip  positively 
drooping  ;  "  for  I  feared,  Mr.  Stodmarsh,  from 
what  you  told  me  of  your  own  opinions,  that 
your  ward " 

"  But  you  understand  that  she  is  to  receive 
no  religious  instruction  whatever  ? "  my  guard- 
ian broke  in.  I  learned  later  that  he  called 
himself  an  Agnostic,  which  seems  to  mean  a 
man  who  professes  to  know  nothing  about  the 
constitution  of  the  universe,  but  to  know  it  a 
great  deal  more  firmly  and  dogmatically  than 
other  people. 

Miss  Westmacott  smoothed  out  the  folds  of 
her  black  dress — she  lived  in  a  chronic  condi- 


Clipping  my  Wings 


20 1 


narsh  ? "  she 
r  a  long  in- 
eceive  her." 
e  her "  ;  but 
er  voice  im- 
so  very  out- 
her  air  that 
mind  before- 
ian  savage, 
ian,"  I  inter- 

i  maijsive  se- 
replied,  in  a 
ip  positively 
Imarsh,  from 
pinions,  that 

is  to  receive 
' "  my  guard- 
at  he  called 
s  to  mean  a 
ng  about  the 
to  know  it  a 
latically  than 

t  the  folds  of 
hronic  condi- 


tion of  mitigated  mourning — and  answered  in 
a  voice  of  deprecatory  acquiescence,  "  Oh,  cer- 
tainly, if  you  desire  it,  your  ward  shall  be  ex- 
empted from  our  usual  round  of  religious 
lessons;  though,  naturally,  in  the  course  of 
ordinary  teaching " 

"  I  don't  mind  that,"  John  Stodmarsh  inter- 
rupted, much  to  her  discomposure — for  she 
was  unused  to  interruption — "  I  only  wish  that 
she  should  enjoy  complete  religious  freedom. 
She  was  brought  up  a  Catholic " 

"  And  is  even  a  Catholic  still,"  I  interposed 
briskly.  I  did  not  wish  to  abjure  my  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  pottage  without  being  even 
consulted. 

My  guardian  took  no  notice  of  my  inter- 
ruption, but  went  on  gravely  :  "  Nevertheless, 
I  desire  to  afford  her  every  opportunity  for 
modifying  her  beliefs  as  circumstances  may 
dictate.  No  doubt  as  she  finds  herself  more 
adequately  educated,  her  ideas  will  broaden." 

"  Into  accordance  with  the  doctrines  of  the 
Church  of  England,"  Miss  Westmacott  sug- 
gested. 

I  saw  it  was  likely  to  become  a  triangular 
duel,  so  I  refrained  from  intervening  further. 
The  space  between  Miss  Westmacott's  eyes 


) 


303 


Rosulba 


was  narrow.  So  were  her  views.  I  allowed 
John  Stochnarsh  and  Her  Imperturhahility  to 
fij^dit  it  out  between  them  over  my  prostrate 
Papist  ^ody. 

The^irlsat  Miss  VVestmacott's — I  mean  the 
Select  Youn^r  Ladies — were  a  little  afraid  of 
me  just  at  first ;  they  feared  my  outlandish 
name,  my  foreign  ways,  my  strange  manners. 
I  gesticulated  too  much  to  please  th^m.  Be- 
sides, they  (questioned  me,  with  the  careless 
ease  of  youth,  about  my  previous  life.  I  had 
a  Past ;  and,  as  I  am  by  nature  a  frank  creature, 
I  told  them  the  whole  truth  of  it — the  road, 
the  One-eyed  Calender,  the  First  Murderer, 
and  all  the  rest.  This  frightened  them  not  a 
little.  Select  Young  Ladies  are  unaccustomed 
to  associate  with  reclaimed  vagrants.  In  time, 
however,  it  was  noised  abroad  in  the  school- 
room that  the  Brownie,  as  they  called  me, 
could  play  plays  and  tell  stories.  I  had  in- 
sisted on  bringing  my  Italian  costume  and  my 
theatrical  puppets  in  my  box — I  cherished  a 
real  affection  for  Juliet  and  Miranda;  and 
when  the  girls  learnt  this,  they  declared  with 
one  accord  that  the  Brownie  must  show  them 
how  she  did  it.    I  was  willing  enough  ;  through- 


/ 


Clipping  my  Wings 


J03 


I  allowed 
irbahility  to 
ny  prostratt! 


-I  mean  the 
tie  afraid  of 
,:  outlandish 
je  manners. 

them.  Be- 
the  careless 
life.  I  had 
ink  creature, 
t — the  road, 
t   Murderer, 

them  not  a 
laccustomed 
ts.     In  time, 

the  school- 

^  called  me, 

I  had  in- 

ume  and  my 

cherished  a 
randa ;  and 
eclared  with 
t  show  them 


h  ;  through- 


oi!*^  my  life,  indeed,  I  have  never  b<;en  accused 
of  backwardness  in  ilisplaying  my  poor  little 
accomplishnifrnts.  So  one  eveninj^,  about 
a  w(!ek  after  my  enrolment  in  the  list  of 
Select  Young  Ladies,  I  took  out  my  Ital- 
ian dress,  slipped  my  dolls  into  their  robes, 
assumed  my  most  fascinating  professional 
smile,  and  began  my  version  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet, 

Never  in  my  life  did  I  make  such  a  dramatic 
success — at  least,  never  again  till  I  called  on 
Mr.  Hurminster.  Many  of  the  girls  crowded 
round  and  listened  with  open  eyes :  "  It  was 
just  like  the  theatre."  The  more  they  ap- 
plauded, the  more  vigorously  I  acted,  and  the 
more  desperately  I  made  love  in  the  person  of 
Romeo.  An  armchair  with  a  table-cover  typi- 
fied the  balcony  ;  I  set  doll  Romeo  below,  and 
myself  leaned  over,  impassioned,  as  Juliet,  to 
answer  him.  With  my  hand  pressed  hard  on 
my  heart,  Italian-wise,  as  if  to  still  its  throb- 
bings,  I  discoursed  of  love  in  abbreviated 
Shakespeare.  The  girls  listened,  spellbound. 
Their  interest  charmed  me.  I  had  never  before 
played  to  such  a  cultivated  audience.  Ethel 
Moriarty  declared  aloud  it  was  "  heavenly." 

I  had  just  uttered  the  words — 


/ 


•  ««*«'it-JTJWB|((>*!-«>»iS.« 


204 


Rosalba 


"  Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face  ; 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night  " — 

when  the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Westmacott 
sailed  in. 

There  was  a  sound  of  scurrying.  All  the 
other  girls  sprang  back  to  their  seats  with  awe- 
struck co?mtenances  ;  but  I,  being  a  confirmed 
rebel,  kept  my  state  in  my  armchair  balcony, 
and  declaimed  my  speech  to  the  end,  as  if  un- 
conscious of  my  superior's  presence.  Miss 
Westmacott  drew  herself  up,  let  her  chin  drop, 
and  gazed  at  me  severely.  I  have  intimated 
that  she  was  a  placid  person,  and  she  did  not 
allow  my  audacity  to  discompose  her.  She 
merely  waited  till  I  had  finished,  her  Roman 
nose  becoming  more  and  more  Roman,  with  a 
massive  air  of  judicial  silence.  As  I  reached 
the  words — 

"  Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered  " — 

she  confronted  me  calmly ;  her  under  lip  was 
like  flabby  india-rubber. 

"  Rosalba,"  she  said,  in  a  quite  unruflfied 
voice,  which,  nevertheless,  somehow  conveyed 
the  impression  of  the  sternest  disapprobation, 
•'  where  did  you  get  that  fancy  dress  ?  " 


L 


Clipping  my  Wings 


205 


my  face ; 

y  cheek 

leak  to-night  " — 

>  Westmacott 


Ing.  All  the 
eats  with  awe- 
g  a  confirmed 
:hair  balcony, 
end,  as  if  un- 
sence.  Miss 
her  chin  drop, 
ave  intimated 
d  she  did  not 
se  her.  She 
1,  her  Roman 
loman,  with  a 
As  I  reached 


iscoverfed  " — 
under  lip  was 

aite  unruffled 
low  conveyed 
isapprobation, 
ress?" 


L 


"It  isn't  a  fancy  dress.  Miss  Westmacott," 
I  answered.  "  It 's  my  Italian  clothes  ;  the 
beauteous  scarf  veiling  an  Indian  beauty.  I 
always  wore  these  things  when  I  was  tour- 
ing." 

"And  those  dolls?"  she  continued,  raising 
Romeo  by  one  leg,  and  holding  hir  1  out  gin- 
gerly upside  down,  between  finger  and  thumb, 
by  his  toes,  as  if  she  expected  him  to  bite 
her. 

"  He  does  n't  sting,"  I  interposed.  "  He  's 
not  a  scorpion.  Those  are  my  dramatis  per- 
sonee.  I  always  use  them  when  I  give  enter- 
tainments. I  was  giving  one  now.  Thou 
overheard'st,  ere  I  was  'ware,  my  true  love's 
passion." 

Miss  Westmacott  never  lost  her  temper. 
That  was  partly  temperament,  partly  acquired 
habit  of  self-repression.  She  eyed  me  with  a 
large  and  compassionate  disapprobation.  I 
was  but  a  poor  Foreigner  !  "  Go  to  your  own 
room,"  she  said,  in  the  same  slow,  measured 
tone  as  ever,  "and  take  off  these  —  these 
garments.  Really,  your  appearance  is  quite 
extraordinary.  Also,  remove  these  toys" — 
she  pointed  with  her  ruler  to  Mercutio,  who 
lay  huddled  in  a  heap  on  the  ground — "  and 


\ 


2o6 


Rosalba 


lock  them  up  in  your  box  again.  As  soon  as 
you  are  clothed  and  in  your  right  mind,  come 
to  me  in  the  drawing-room." 

I  think  from  their  faces  the  other  girls 
thought  Miss  Westmacott  meant  to  flay  me 
alive,  like  St.  Bartholomew.  But  when  I  went 
to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  her  just  largely 
and  compassionately  reproachful.  Allowances 
must  be  made  for  benighted  Foreigners.  She 
knitted  at  a  loose  white  woollen  shr.wl  while 
she  spoke  to  me — a  deliberate  little  device,  the 
solemn  effect  of  which  I  did  not  fail  to  notice. 
Her  bone  needles  went  click,  click,  click  to- 
gether, to  point  each  sentence. 

"Your  guardian  has  placed  you  here,  Ro- 
salba, not  merely  in  order  that  you  may  learn  " 
—click,  click,  click—"  but  also  that  you  may 
enjoy  the  advantage  of  association  with  Bng- 
lish  Ladies."     She  laid  a  stress  on  the  last  two 
words  which  seemed  designed  to  impress  upon 
me  the  double  fact  that  I  had  not  the  good  for- 
tune to  be  born  English,  and  that  I  was  not  a 
lady.     I  believe  I  admire  English  ladies  as 
amply  as  they  deserve  ;  but  I  could  never  see 
that  they  differed  wholly  in  kind  from  other 
ladies  elsewhere.      However,  I  bowed  submis- 
sion.    "  You  have  had  great  early  disadvant- 


f 


Clipping  my  Wings 


207 


As  soon  as 
mind,  come 

other  girls 
to  flay  me 

when  I  went 
just  largely 
Allowances 

gners.  She 
shr.wl  while 

e  device,  the 

ail  to  notice. 

ck,  click   to- 

)u  here,  Ro- 
i  may  learn  " 
lat  you  may 
n  with  Bng-- 
1  the  last  two 
impress  upon 
the  good  for- 
t  I  was  not  a 
ish  ladies  as 
uld  never  see 
d  from  other 
owed  submis- 
rly  disadvant- 


/ 


ages,  which  we  regret  and  for  which  we  pity 
you  ;  but  your  guardian  wishes  to  give  you 
the  opportunity  " — click,  click,  click — "  for  re- 
pairing them.  I  should  have  thought " — this 
with  a  gentle  mixture  of  massive  severity  and 
persuasive  suggestiveness — "that  your  own 
good  taste  and  good  sense  (for  I  know  you 
have  intelligence)  would  have  deterred  you  " 
— click,  click,  click — "from  alluding  before 
your  fellow-pupils — young  ladies  from  culti- 
vated English  homes — to  your  unfortunate 
childhood  and  your  ^ild  foreign  experiences." 
She  put  an  accent  on  the  word /oretg^n  which 
showed  she  regarded  it  as  practically  synony- 
mous with  disreputable.  "  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  have  taken  care  to  con- 
ceal from  them  these  unhappy  episodes  in  your 
past.  You  have  not  done  so.  I  must  ask 
you  now,  for  your  own  sake,  and  in  justice  to 
your  guardian,  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  the 
other  girls  confided  to  me,  not  to  repeat  these 
undesirable  performances.  Will  you  promise 
me  never  again,  while  you  remain  here,  to 
wear  that— that  garb,  or  to  produce  those " 

She  paused  for  a  word,  so  I  suggested 
"  Fantoccini." 

"  Those  objectionable  puppets  ?  " 


V 


208 


Rosalba 


I  hesitated.     "  I  don't  want  to  promise,"  I 

n  n  sAV€*  red 

••  Why  not  ? "    Click,  click,  click,  very  clearly. 
"Because— if  I   promise,  I   shall  keep  my 
word.     And  I    don't  want  to   leave  off   my 
performances  altogether." 

The  unexpected  answer  was  counted  to  me 
for  righteousness.  Miss  Westmacott  paused 
in  her  knitting  and  regarded  me  for  a  moment 
with  mollified  eyes.  "Mr.  Stodmarsh  and 
Mrs.  Mallory  would  wish  it,"  she  said  at  last 
in  her  massive  way.  . 

My  colour  deept  ad.  She  had  applied  ju- 
dicial torture.  "  If  Mrs.  Mallory  wishes  it— I 
promise,"  I  answered. 

She  looked  me  through  and  through  in  her 
calm,  well-bred  way.  "That  will  do,"  she 
murmured.  "  You  can  go  back  now  to  the 
other  girls.     I  accept  your  promise.     Rosalba, 

I  trust  yo\y"  ,     ,     ,       u  j 

I  felt  that  was  harder  than  if  she  had  scolded 

and  punished  me. 

But  from  that  day  forth,  I  was  an  immense 
favourite  with  the  other  girls.  Though  I  was 
not  allowed  to  produce  my  puppets,  or  wear 
my  native  dress,  I  gave  my  little  plays  and 
told  my  stories  without  them.      And  my  vivid 


Clipping  my  Win^s 


209 


0  promise,"  I 

:,  very  clearly, 
lall  keep  my 
leave   off   my 

lounted  to  me 
lacott  paused 
for  a  moment 
todmarsh  and 
le  said  at  last 

lad  applied  ju- 
■y  wishes  it — I 

through  in  her 

will   do,"  she 

:k  now  to  the 

lise.     Rosalba, 

ihe  had  scolded 

ras  an  immense 

Though  I  was 

ippets,  or  wear 

little  plays  and 

And  my  vivid 


southern  manner  delighted  my  audience. 
What  to  an  Italian  child  came  by  nature  as 
mere  spontaneous  gesture  seemed  to  my  Eng- 
lish schoolfellows  the  most  intense  and  exciting 
dramatic  action.  The  Brownie  was  thenceforth 
on  the  best  of  terms  with  them. 


«4 


L 


V. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


AN    OLU    ACQUAINTANCE 


HOW  about  lessons?"  you  ask.     Oh, 
lessons   gave    me   very   little    trou- 
ble. 

You  see,  I  had  so  long  been  unused  to  learn- 
ing that  school  came  to  me  as  a  novelty :  I 
plied  my  books  diligently ;  for  I  went  to  sub- 
jects fresh,  where  to  the  other  girls  they  were 
stale  and  hackneyed.     Besides,  the  languages 
caused  me  no  difificulty.     I   had  French  and 
Italian  by  ear  already ;  and  with  their  aid  I 
found  Latin  easy  ;  indeed  I  had  spelt  it  out  a 
little  when  I  went  to  church,  for  I  could  follow 
a  great  deal  of  the  prayer-book  by  guesswork. 
Arithmetic  I  hated— there  is  nothing  pictur- 
esque  in   arithmetic;  but  I  circumvented  it. 
As  for  history  and  geography,  well— they  were 
so  interesting !     It  was  funny  to  find  out  that 
Julius  Caesar  was  a  real  person,  and  that  Bag- 

210 


:e 

3u  ask. 
y   little 


Oh, 

trou- 


lused  to  learn- 
a  novelty :  I 
went  to  sub- 
iris  they  wer;^ 
the  languages 
i  French  and 
th  their  aid  I 
spelt  it  out  a 
I  could  follow 
by  guesswork, 
othing  pictur-fi 
cumvented  it. 
ell — they  were 
)  find  out  that 
and  that  Bag- 


An  Old  Acquaintance  211 

dad  was  not  an  airy  nothing  in  Fairyland,  but 
a  town  on  the  Tigris  !  I  was  constantly  mak- 
ing such  fresh  discoveries,  which  delighted  me 
in  the  same  way  as  it  delighted  King  George's 
minister  to  learn  that  Cape  Breton  was  an 
island.  If  M.  Jourdain  was  charmed  to  hear 
he  had  been  talking  prose  all  his  life  without 
knowing  it,  I  was  equally  charmed  to  hear  that 
I  had  been  drinking  in  history  and  geography 
when  I  supposed  myself  to  be  reading  poetic 
fancies  by  Shakespeare  and  Dante.  Virgil,  it 
seemed,  was  an  actual  poet,  not  a  myth  of  the 
Inferno:  and  Pisa  and  Bruges  were  actual 
cities ! 

"  Naturally  quick,  but  undisciplined,"  was 
Miss  Westmacott's  favourite  report.  "  Takes 
pains  where  she  is  interested,  and  none  where 
she  is  not."  It  shocked  Her  Imperturbability 
when  I  tore  open  my  first  report — addressed 
to  "John  Stodmarsh,  Esq." — before  her  very 
eyes,  and  made  the  audible  comment  upon  it, 
"No  profit  comes  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en  ; 
in  short,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect." 
"  That  child,"  she  said  in  her  slow  way  to  my 
natural  enemy,  the  mathematical  mistress, 
"has  read  more  than  is  good  for  her." 

When  John  spoke  to  me  once  in  the  garden 

\ 


,11 


212 


Rosalba 


of  the  need  for  learning  mathematics  (which  I 
hated),  I  tried  to  be  submissive. 

"  You  must  think  of  your  after  Ufe,"  he  said. 

"  We  must  not  sacrifice  the  present  to  the 
future,"  I  answered  sweetly.     "  It  is  too  often 

done." 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  odd  look.  "  You 
mean   the  future    to  the   present,"   he  said, 

puzzled. 

•'  On  no  ;  that  would  be  platitude,"  I  cried ; 
"  and  I  am  never  a  platitudinarian.  So  many 
people  forget  that  the  present  is  all  we  have  ; 
the  future"— I  blew  a  dandelion-clock— "  it 
may  go  pop,  like  that !  /  try  to  -cniember  our 
duty  to  the  present." 

He  did  not  quite  understand,  but  he  smiled 

pleasantly. 

Sundays  I  was  often  allowed,  by  my  guard- 
ian's leave,  to  spend  at  Mrs.  Mallory's.  In 
winter,  she  was  at  her  flat  in  town ;  in  summer, 
at  Patchingham.  One  Saturday  afternoon,  in 
my  first  term,  I  went  to  stop  with  her  in  her 
London  home  ;  and  the  mom.ent  I  arrived  I 
tore  up-stairs,  as  was  my  vont,  to  slip  off  my 
horrid,  insipid  English  clothes,  and  resume  my 
beloved  Italian  costume.  It  was  so  much 
warmer  in  colour  ;  it  gratified  my  barbaric  taste 


i 


An  Old  Acquaintance  213 


itics  (which  I 

life,"  he  said, 
iresent  to  the 
t  is  too  often 

look.  "  You 
nt,"   he  said, 

ude,"  I  cried ; 
in.  So  many 
5  all  we  have  ; 
on-clock — "  it 
-•Ciuember  our 

but  he  smiled 

by  my  guard- 
Mi  allory's.  In 
11 ;  in  summer, 
r  afternoon,  in 
ith  her  in  her' 
nt  I  arrived  I 
to  slip  off  my 
ind  resume  my 
was  so  much 
f  barbaric  taste 


/ 


for  bright  hues  ;  item,  it  suited  my  complexion 
and  my  cast  of  features  better.  As  soon  as  I 
had  changed,  and  was  fit  to  look  at,  I  darted 
out  into  the  studio,  where  my  beloved  Mrs. 
Mallory  was  never  tired  of  making  little 
sketches  of  me. 

She  was  standing  at  her  easel,  the  dear  thing, 
adding  delicate  and  almost  imperceptible  little 
strokes  to  the  polished  surface  of  a  marble 
floor  in  her  foreground.  Her  brush  touched 
the  canvas  as  if  it  were  thistle-down.  But  she 
was  not  alone.  A  young  man  in  a  brown  Nor- 
folk jacket  and  knickerbockers  leant  his  elbows 
on  a  pedestal  at  her  side,  criticising  or  admir- 
ing her  dainty  brush-work.  The  picture  repre- 
sented a  dark  Roman  girl  in  classical  costume, 
who  had  flung  herself  with  careless  grace  on 
the  floor  of  an  atrium,  near  a  bronze  statue. 
"The  reflection  is  perfect,"  the  young  man 
said,  "  quite  perfect ;  the  varying  tints  in  the 
marble,  and  in  the  reflected  flesh  of  the  foot 
on  the  parti-coloured  squares,  are  as  good  as 
they  can  be  made.  But  —  just  a  touch  of 
green  there  for  local  colour,  in  the  shadow 
between  the  arch  of  the  instep  and  the 
floor — what  do  you  think?  Dare  I  vent- 
ure?" 


\ 


!     : 


3i| 


214 


Rosalba 


"Why,  Rosalba,  my  child,"  Mrs.  Mallory 
exclaimed,  turning  round  and  perceiving  me  as 
I  stood  on  tiptoe.  "You're  early!  How 
delightful  ! " 

"  Miss  Westmacott  let  me  go  an  hour  before 
my  time,"  I  answered,  jumping  at  her.  "  It 
ought  to  have  been  Latin  ;  but  to-morrow  be- 
ing the  First  Sunday  in  Advent,  she  made  it 
religious  instruction  instead  ;  and  I  'm  off  re- 
ligion, by  my  guardian's  orders." 

The  young  man  turned  too.  For  a  second 
he  stared  at  me,  astonished.  Then  he  advanced, 
with  his  right  hand  extended.  "  Have  you 
forgotten  me  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  bright  smile, 
all  his  face  aglow  with  it. 

John  Stodmarsh  did  not  remember  me  when 
we  met.  The  man  in  brown  did.  That  struck 
a  keynote.     One  likes  to  be  remembered. 

"  Forgotten  you  ! "  I  answered,  taking  his 
hand  like  an  old  friend.  "  Not  at  all  I  Your 
name  is  Arthur  Wingham." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  recollect  it ! " 

"  Perfectly.  I  have  always  remembered  you ; 
also  Mr.  Stodmarsh." 

"  So  this  is  the  girl  that  Stodmarsh "* 

"  Has  adopted  as  his  ward,"  Mrs.  Mallory 
interjected  before  he  could  commit  himself  to 


i 


An  Old  Acquaintance 


ai5 


Mrs.  Mallory 
■ceiving  me  as 
early !      How 


in  hour  before 
at  her.  "  It 
to-morrow  be- 
lt, she  made  it 
nU  I  'm  off  re- 

For  a  second 

n  he  advanced, 

"  Have  you 

1  bright  smile, 

mber  me  when 
I.    That  struck 
lembered. 
ed,  taking  his 
:  at  all !    Your 

recollect  it ! " 
nembered  you ; 

marsh " 

'  Mrs.  Mallory 
imil  himself  to 


anything  more  precise.  "  Yes,  this  is  my 
Rosalba ! " 

"  He  has  taken  me — on  approbation,"  I  put 
in  saucily. 

"  Hut  h(^  never  told  me  it  wasj'o//,"  the  man 
in  brown  went  on,  standing  off  to  stare  at 
me. 

"  He  did  not  know,"  I  answered.  "  I  did  not 
quite  like  to  recall  to  him  now  that  he  had  seen 
me  before  on  the  Monti  Herici." 

"  Why  not  ?"  he  asked  curiously. 

I  hesitated.  "  Well,  you  know,  he  said 
Beri'ci,"  I  answered  at  last,  with  some  reluct- 
ance, "and  I  thought" — I  pursed  my  lips — "I 
thought  it  might  annoy  him  to  feel  that  I  per- 
haps remembered  it.  You  see,  he  has  such 
consciousness  of  his  own  dignity." 

Arthur  Wingham  glanced  at  Mrs.  Mallory. 
"  The  young  lady  possesses  tact,"  he  murmured, 
"as  well  as  observation  of  character." 

"Observation!"  Mrs.  Mallory  answered  in 
the  same  half-aside.    "  A  blade  of  Damascus  ! " 

"  But  you  will  not  tell  Mr.  Stodmarsh  I  have 
seen  him  before?"  I  put  in  anxiously. 

"  Tell  h'm  ?  not  for  worlds,"  he  answered. 
I  was  too  young  to  know  then  that  this  was  a 
bad  beginning  to  a  friendship,  for  a  girl  wlio 


i 


2l6 


Rosalba 


was  to  be  John  Stoilinarsh's  wife.  Nothin*,'  is 
more  dangerous  than  a  secret  shared  together  ; 
a  secret  shared  together,  no  matter  how  small, 
against  the  man  or  woman  one  is  meant  to 
marry — well,  there  can  be  but  one  of  two  ends 
to  it. 

"Where  did  you  see  her?"  Mrs.  Mallory 
asked,  laying  down  her  palette  and  drawing 
me  towards  her. 

Arthur  Wingham  told  her  in  brief,  in  his 
own  way,  the  story  of  our  first  meeting  at  the 
Madonna  del  Monte. 

The  smell  of  the  wine-vats  rose  again  to  my 
nostrils.  It  brought  tears  into  my  eyes  to  be 
thus  carried  back  to  home  and  my  father. 

"  How  odd  you  should  both  remember ! " 
Mrs.  Mallory  exclaimed,  seating  me  on  the 
couch. 

He  looked  down  at  me  once  more,  and 
pointed  with  his  left  hand  demonstratively. 
"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered,  moving  one  finger 
of  his  right  down  through  the  air  in  sinuous 
curves,  as  if  drawing  my  figure.  "  The  aston- 
ishing point  is — that  Stodmarsh  should  have 
forgotten.  But  the  dear  fellow  lacks  only  one 
thing — a  soul.  .  .  .  In  a  Government  office, 
the  omission  is  unimportant." 

.       / 
f 

i 


An  Old  Acquaintance  217 


Nothinj^  is 

ed  together ; 

L^r  how  small, 

is  meant  to 

;  of  two  ends 

^Irs.  Mallory 
and  drawing 

brief,  in  his 
leeting  at  the 

;  again  to  my 
ly  eyes  to  be 
y  father, 
remember ! " 
me  on   the 

e  more,  and 
nonstratively. 
ng  one  finger 
air  in  sinuous 
"  The  aston- 
i  should  have 
acks  only  one 
rnment  office, 


"  Arthur !  You  are  unjust  to  him  I  And 
besides,  he  is  my  cousin." 

"Yes.  Wii /icis  that  good  point.  But  you 
have  been  at  my  rooms  and  looked  over  my 
sketches  ;  I  wonder  that  when  you  saw  her  first 
— those  illusive  eyes,  that  erratic  hair — you  did 
not  recollect  having  seen  something  like  her." 

•'  She  (i/(i  strike  me  as  strangely  familiar,  but 
I  could  not  think  why.  I  set  it  down  to  her 
being  the  type  of  the  ideal  Italian — the  higher 
and  more  ethereal  Italian,  don't  you  know,  with 
poetry,  feeling,  fancy." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Mallory!"  I  cried,  hiding 
my  blushes  in  her  soft  pashmina  gown.  "You 
conspire  to  spoil  me !  What  would  Miss 
Westmacott  say  if  only  she  could  hear  you  ? 
It  is  well  that  I  have  her  candid  opinion  con- 
stantly turned  on  like  a  cold  douche,  to  coun- 
teract your  flow  of  flattery." 

"  Stop  a  minute!"  Arthur  Wingham  cried, 
seizing  his  crush  felt  hat.  "  I  '11  just  run  round 
to  my  rooms,  Linda,  and  see  if  you  can  recon- 
struct something."  And  he  darted  away  round 
the  corner  to  his  own  studio. 

"  He  is  very  handsome,"  I  said,  as  he  disap- 
peared down  the  corridor,  "  How  nice  of 
him  to  remember  me !  " 


2lS 


Rosalba 


"  Quite  nice."  She  coughed  a  little  cough. 
"  But  still,  Rosalba  dear,  he  spoke  the  truth  ; 
it  is  not  easy  to  forget  you." 

"  Oh,  please,  Mrs.  Mallory  !  Recollect  I  am 
a  waif  of  the  highway,  unused  to  gentle  treat- 
ment."    My  eyes  were  dim  again. 

"  Then  you  have  arrears  to  make  up,  dear. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  spoiling  you.  Miss  Wcst- 
macott  Ayill  serve  to  redress  the  balance." 

In  a  minute  or  two  Arthur  Wingham  dashed 
in  again,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  n  jch-worn 
sketch-book.  He  opened  it  to  a  certain  page, 
and  displayed  it  to  Mrs.  Mallory.  It  con- 
tained two  or  three  sketches  of  a  tripping 
little  Italian  child,  half  monkey,  half  fairy,  clad 
in  an  obtrusively  national  costume,  and  en- 
gaged in  the  wildest  and  most  impossible 
gambols.  One  of  the  pages  he  turned  over 
in  haste  and  tried  to  conceal  from  me ;  but  I 
insisted  upon  seeing  it.  It  showed  two  child- 
ren pushing  one  another,  and  bore  the  insciip- 
tion,  '*  Naow,  then,  Marier-Ann,  if  you  do  that 
agin,  I  shall  gao  stright  in  an'  tell  your 
mother ! " 

"  Did  1  look  like  that  then  ? "  I  cried, 
laughing. 

"Yes;    you    looked    like    that    then,"    he 


( 


L  little  cough, 
ce  the  truth  ; 

ecollect  I  am 
1  gentle  treat- 

ake  up,  dear. 
Miss  West- 
alance." 
gham  dashed 
a  n  jch-worn 
certain  page, 
3ry.  It  con- 
)f  a  tripping 
lalf  fairy,  clad 
Lime,  and  en- 
jt  impossible 
;  turned  over 
>m  me ;  but  I 
'ed  two  child- 
re  the  insciip- 
if  you  do  that 
an'   tell   your 

in?"  I    cried, 

at    then,"    he 


An  Old  Acquaintance  219 

answered,  eyeing  it  sideways  and  comparing 
past  with  present.  "  But  already,  even  then, 
there  was  a  wistfulness  in  your  big  eyes,  a 
(juestioning  wonder  in  your  expression,  a 
strange  touch  of  fancy  in  the  twitch  of  your 
eager  mouth,  that  I  have  never  forgotten.  I 
have  put  you  since  that  time  in  more  than 
one  picture  from  those  hasty  notes. — We 
do  not  always  find  faces,  Linda,  that  look 
straight  through  space  into  the  Infinite  be- 
yond it." 

"  You  are  not  to  be  alone  in  spoiling  me, 
it  seems,  Mrs.  Mallory,"  I  said,  growing 
crimson. 

But  Mrs.  Mallory  answered  nothing ;  for 
she  was  hurriedly  jotting  down,  on  a  spare  bit 
of  cardboard,  the  red  flush  through  my  brown 
cheek  before  it  paled  and  faded. 

Arthur  Wingham  turned  once  more  to  my 
portrait  on  the  easel.  "It  is  not  quite  right, 
Linda,"  he  said,  gazing  from  me  to  it.  *'  Not 
quite  magical  enough,  somehow.  A  spark 
more  of  the  gipsy  fire  in  that  left  eye — dare 
I?"  He  scarce  touched  it  with  a  brush,  and 
suddenly,  as  if  Cinderella's  fairy  godmother 
had  been  at  work,  a  strange  light  gleamed  in 
the  pupil. 


220 


Rosalba 


Mrs.  Mallory  looked  on  with  a  longing  de- 
light. ••  How  is  it,  Arthur,"  she  cried,  "  that 
I  am  a  modest  siTCcess,  while  you " 

"  Are  a  failure  ?  " 

"In  popularity  —  yes  ;  and  yet,  one 
stroke " 

He  mused  and  fetched  a  little  sigh.  "  It  is 
because  you  paint  faultlessly  the  things  that 
people  want,  v^hile  /  grope  blindly,  with  fierce 
graspings  and  stumblings,  after  the  things 
people  do  not  care  for." 

Arthur  Wingham  dined  at  Mrs.  Mallory's 
that  Saturday  night.  He  had  not  been  invited, 
and  we  had  one  ptarmigan  between  us;  but 
I  was  glad  he  stopped.  He  seemed  to  me 
there  like  an  old  acquaintance.  On  Sunday 
morning  he  came  round  early,  and  insisted  on 
escorting  me  to  the  Pro-Cathedral.  The  Mass 
in  G  was  glorious.  When  we  returned,  we 
found  John  Stodmarsh  awaiting  us — close- 
shaven,  immaculate ;  he  lunched,  by  arrange- 
ment, at  Mrs.  Mallory's  every  Sunday  when 
I  was  there.  He  took  my  hand  with  cold 
politeness  and  asked  where  we  had  been,  but 
seemed  vexed  when  I  told  him.  However, 
he  muttered  apologetically  to  Mrs.  Mallor>', 
"  Of  course,  she  will  outgrow  it." 


An  Old  Acquaintance  221 


longing  de- 
cried, "  that 


yet,     one 

igh.  *•  It  is 
things  that 

{,  with  fierce 
the   things 

•s.  Mallory's 
been  invited, 
een  us;  but 
2med  to  me 
On  Sunday 
d  insisted  on 
The  Mass 
returned,  we 
g  us — close- 
by  arrange- 
unday  when 
id  with  cold 
lad  been,  but 
.  However, 
Irs.  Mallor)', 


/* 


"  Perhaps,"  Mrs.  Mallory  answered,  with  a 
gentle  smile.  She  was  the  broadest-minded 
of  Anglicans. 

*'  She  has  too  much  sense  not  to  see  through 
their  rubbish  in  the  long  run,"  he  answered, 
growing  warn>..  I  think  John  Stodmarsh 
believed  I  had  too  much  sense  not  to  conform 
in  the  end  to  all  his  opinions.  Sensible  people 
were  those  who  thought  sensibly — as  he  did. 

We  had  a  lovely  afternoon  in  the  studio. 
Mrs.  Mallory  made  me  give  some  of  my  little 
dramatic  sketches,  my  parts  varying  from 
Miranda  to  Miss  Westmacott.  My  guardian 
looked  grave  at  the  last  impersonation.  "  You 
should  not  laugh,  Linda,"  he  said,  making  his 
collar  still  more  rigid.  "  Miss  Westmacott  is 
placed  in  authority  over  Rosalba.  'Tis  a 
dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  mimicry." 

'*  Dear  good  Miss  Westmacott ! "  I  mur- 
mured penitently.  "She  has  all  the  virtues-— 
and  a  Roman  nose." 

Meantime  Arthur  Wingham  and  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory made  flying  studies  of  me  in  my  various 
characters,  while  John  Stodmarsh  stood  by,  his 
thumbs  in  his  armholes,  criticising  impartially 
both  painters  and  sitter. 

Arthur  Wingham  was  most  amusing  com- 


I 


222 


Rosalba 


pany.  He  said  many  good  things,  which  set 
us  all  laughing,  and  he  gave  John  Stodmarsh 
sly  digs  which  John  hardly  perceived,  but 
which  kept  Mrs.  Mallory  and  me  in  a  constant 
state  of  suppressed  convulsions.  About  seven, 
John  left:  "So  sorry  to  go;  but  I  have  an 
appointment  to  dine"— his  voice  became  im- 
pressive, almost  awesome—"  with  the  wife  of 
a  Cabinet  Minister." 

As  he  closed  the  door,  Arthur  Wingham 
expanded  his  chest,  and  made  a  pantomimic 
movement  of  breathing  more  freely.  "The 
incubus  of  prospeciive  greatness  is  removed," 
he  muttered. 

"  Arthur ! "  Mrs.  Mallory  put  in  with  a  quick 

glance  of  warning. 

"  Yes,  I  kuow  it  is  wrong— very  wrong,"  he 
answered  penitently.  He  was  a  creature  of 
moods.  "  I  ought  to  say  polite  and  appreci- 
ative things  about  him,  of  course— especially, 
I  admit,  in  this  present  company.  But  then, 
our  dear  friend  Stodmarsh  is  himself  so 
perfectly  capable  of  impressing  everyone  else 
with  a  due  sense  of  his  own  merits  that  he 
hardly  needs—  Dining  with  a  Cabinet  Minis- 
ter, indeed  \  Why,  he  is  certain  to  be  in  the 
Cabinet  himself  before  he's  fifty." 


rs,  which  set 
n  Stodmarsh 
irceived,  but 
in  a  constant 
About  seven, 
it  I  have  an 
i  became  im- 
1  the  wife  of 

if  Wingham 
I  pantomimic 
reely.  **  The 
,  is  removed," 

n  with  a  quick 

ry  wrong,"  he 
a  creature  of 
;  and  appreci- 
ie — especially, 
y.  But  then, 
s  himself  so 
everyone  else 
nerits  that  he 
Cabinet  Minis- 
I  to  be  in  the 


An  Old  Acquaintance  223 

"  You  must  feel  it  most  improper,  Wing- 
ham,"  I  began,  in  John  Stodmarsh's  own  voice 
and  manner,  "to  make  remarks  before  this 
child  derogatory  to  her  guardian.  Recollect 
his  station.     Jocularity  may  be  ill-timed." 

"Oh,  how  killingly  like  him!"  Arthur 
Wingham  cried.     "  Is  n't  it,  Linda  ?" 

Mrs.  Mallory  tried  to  keep  her  countenance. 

"  I  shall  not  ask  you  here  again  when  Ro- 
salba  is  coming." 

"  What  a  deadly  threat !  Now  you  apply 
thumb-screws.     If  thai  is  to  be  my  penalty —  " 

"  Do  talk  sense,  Mr.  Wingham  ! "  I  broke 
in. 

"Mr.  Wingham  ?  Why  this  mister  ?  Mister 
me  no  mystery,  if  you  please,  my  dear  little 
lady.  Are  we  not  old  friends  ?  and  for  auld 
lang  syne's  sake  shall  it  not  be  Arthur  ?  " 

"  As  you  like  it,"  I  answered. 

"  And  your  name  is  Rosalba." 

"  But  I  did  not  give  you  leave  to  call  me 
by  it." 

"  No,  certainly  not.  Nor  will  I.  Without 
Stodmarsh's  consent — he  is  your  guardian, 
you  know — I  feel  I  ought  not  to  venture  on 
that  liberty.  Besides,  I  don't  like  the  name 
Rosalba    It  is  n't  half  dainty  enough  for  you." 


_L 


224 


Rosalba 


••  I  have  no  other." 

"  Then  I  shall  call  you  Drusilla— in  order 
not  to  infringe  John  Stodmarsh's  rights." 

"  Why  Drusilla  ?  "  I  asked,  wondering. 

•'  Because  I  like  the  name  ;  and  because,  as 
Dick  Swiveller  said  to  the  Marchioness,  '  it  is 
more  real  and  agreeable.'  I  shall  make  it 
Dru  for  short.  Dick  Swiveller,  after  all,  was 
a  true  idealist.  To  him,  the  ideal  was  more 
real  than  the  actual.     Don't  you  think  he  was 

right,  Dru?" 

"  What  nonsense  you  do  talk  to  the  child, 
Arthur ! "  Mrs.  Mallory  put  in,  moving  her 
foot  impatiently. 

"  Yes ;  because  I  am  happy.  I  talk  niount- 
ains  of  nonsense  whenever  I  am  enjoying 
myself.  This  is  an  old  friend,  you  know, 
Linda— an  old  friend  often  remembered  (who 
could  forget  those  reticent  eyes  ?)— and  another 
old  friend,  Horace  by  name,  tells  us  it  is 
delightful  to  play  the  fool  with  a  friend 
recovered." 

Mrs.  Mallory's  face  grew  grave.  "  You  are 
following  out  Horace's  prescription  to  the 
letter,"   she  answered,   making    a  mouth  at 

him. 

He  sobered    himself    in   turn.     "Do  you 


ilia — in  order 
,  rights." 
ndering. 
id  because,  as 
hioness,  '  it  is 
ihall  make  it 

after  all,  was 
leal  was  more 

think  he  was 

c  to  the  child, 
I,  moving  her 

I  talk  mount- 
am  enjoying 
d,  you  know, 
embered  (who 
> — and  another 
tells  us  it  is 
with  a   friend 


An  Old  Acquaintance 


225 


think  so  ? "  he  answered,  changing  his  tone 
of  a  sudden.  "  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  that ;  for 
there  are  persons  and  subjects  it  is  sacrilege 
to  trifle  with." 


>5 


ve.  "  You  are 
ription  to  the 
r    a  mouth  at 


rn.     "  Do  you 


CHAPTER  XV 

I    TAKE    TO    AUTHORSHIP 

I  SPENT  three  years  at  Miss  Westmacott's. 
The  events  of  those  three  years  I  cannot 
"reduce  to  chronological  order"  (as  John 
Stodmarsh  would  say)  quite  so  well  as  those 
of  my  early  wanderings.  They  were  so  mono- 
tonous, you  see,  and  had  so  much  less  plot- 
interest !  I  learned  many  things;  I  "toned 
down,"  Miss  Westmacott  said— alas,  too  truly  ! 
—and  I  acquired  the  English  passion  for  the 
bath.  But  that  was  all.  My  life  was  at  a 
standstill.  So  I  shall  only  try  to  recall  a  few 
stray  episodes. 

My  guardian  was  generous  to  me.  I  can- 
not speak  LOO  highly  of  his  kindness.  He 
allowed  me  ample  pocket-money.  Most  of  my 
holidays  I  spent  at  Mrs.  Mallory's  cottage  in 
the  country.  While  there,  I  saw  much  of 
Sir  Hugh  Tachbrook,  who  cherished  an   un- 

226 


'!  Take  to  Authorship 


327 


IIP 

Westmacott's. 
years  I  cannot 
er"   (as  John 

well  as  those 
were  so  mono- 
mch  less  plot- 
igs  ;  I  "  toned 
alas,  too  truly ! 
)assion  for  the 

/i/e  was  at  a 
to  recall  a  few 

to  me.  I  can- 
kindness.  He 
y.  Most  of  my 
ry's  cottage  in 
saw  much  of 
erished  an   un- 


requited affection  for  my  dear  Auntie,  as  I  had 
learned  to  call  her  ;  much,  too,  of  my  guardian 
— and  something  of  Arthur  Wingham. 

When  I  was  about  sixteen,  a  birthday 
present  arrived  for  me.  I  phrase  it  thus 
dubiously,  "about  sixteen,"  not  as  a  concession 
to  my  mother's  Irish  blood,  but  because  I  did 
not  really  hiiow  my  own  birthday.  We  take 
small  count  of  birthdays  in  Italy,  thinking 
more  of  our  festa,  which  is  the  day  of  our 
patron  saint ;  but,  as  I  found  it  advantageous 
to  have  a  birthday  in  England,  like  other 
people,  I  adopted  for  the  purpose  the  ist  of 
August.  It  fell  conveniently  in  the  middle 
of  the  summer  holidays,  when  I  was  with  Mrs. 
Mallory,  and  near  Sir  Hugh,  who  disapproved 
of  me  on  principle  (as  an  Italian  upstart  raised 
above  the  position  which  Providence  designed), 
but  tor  my  Auntie's  sake  always  gave  me  a 
present.  The  particular  object  in  question 
just  now,  however,  did  not  come  from  Sir 
Hugh.  A  railway  van  conveyed  it.  I  rushed 
down  to  the  door,  when  Ellen  informed  me  of 
this  great  event,  and  to  my  utter  joy  beheld — 
a  bicycle  ! 

I  screamed  with  delight.  John,  who  was 
behind  me — I  called  him  simply  John  now,  by 


228 


Rosalba 


request— looked  his  mild  displeasure ;  he  did 
not  wholly  approve  of  women  bicycling  (poli- 
tical economy  demarcates  the  spheres  of  the 
sexes)  ;  but  he  did  not  forbid  it.  "  She  is  a 
hij;h-spirited  girl,"  he  said  aside  to  Auntie, 
"and  I  suppose  she  must  do  as  other  high- 
spirited  girls  do  nowadays;  though  't  is  cer- 
tainly not  the  gift  /  should  have  selected  for 
her  by  preference." 

Auntie  shook  her  head  at  him  and  answered 
very  low,  "  John,  don't  be  ridiculous  !  " 

I  turned  to  the  label.  *'  With  best  wishes 
for  many  happy  returns  of  the  day— for  Dru 
—from  Arthur  Wingham." 

Poor  Arthur  !  I  was  almost  sorry  ;  for  he 
was  a  very  moderately  successful  artist.  And 
machines  cost  money.  But  'twas  a  lovely 
bicycle  ! 

I  rode  it  by  nature.  I  have  supple  limbs 
and  had  danced  so  much.  Besides,  the  art  of 
balance  came  to  me  of  itself.  That  is  one  of 
the  many  traits  I  inherit  in  full  measure  from 
my  arboreal  ancestry.  The  bicycle  emancipated 
me;  it  is  the  great  emancipator.  It  put  me 
back  at  one  bound  from  the  bonds  of  school 
to  something  like  the  old  freedom  I  remembered 
and  sighed  for.     And  it  took  me  once  more  to 


I 


\\ 


I  Take  to  Authorship 


aag 


isure ;  he  did 
cycling  (poli- 
)heres  of  the 
;.  "  She  is  a 
;  to  Auntie, 
is  other  high- 
ugh  't  is  cer- 
;  selected  for 

and  answered 
ous ! 

h  best  wishes 
day — for  Dru 

sorry  ;   for  he 

I  artist.  And 
was   a  lovely 

supple  limbs 
ies,  the  art  of 
rhat  is  one  of 
measure  from 
e  emancipated 
r.  It  put  me 
)nds  of  school 

I I  remembered 
i  once  more  to 


country  roads.  I  hate  London.  I  am  of 
A  ready. 

In  some  respects,  indeed,  I  admit,  school  had 
made  me  younger  again.  I  lost  a  little  of  the 
precocious  wisdom  of  my  days  on  the  road — 
what  Arthur  Wingham  called  my  "artless 
shrewdness " — and  grew  simpler  and  more 
childish.  Perhaps  it  was  in  part  the  woman 
awakening  within  me  ;  that  has  always  a  strange 
softening  efTect  on  the  tomboy  nature.  And 
though  I  was  never  a  tomboy,  I  had  been 
wild  enough  and  wayward  enough  when  I 
strolled  the  road  with  the  One-eyed  Calender 
and  the  First  Murderer. 

Once  mounted  on  a  bicycle,  however,  I  was 
free  once  more  to  roam  the  highways  of  Eng- 
land, unaccompanied  and  unchaperoned,  ex- 
cept on  Sundays — when  Arthur  himself  most 
often  accompanied  me.  He  liked  to  see  how 
I  was  getting  on  with  my  riding,  he  said  ;  and 
besides,  when  I  was  alone  with  him,  I  let  my 
little  devil  loose  to  peep  out  more  frequently 
than  before  Linda  and  Stodmarsh.  He  ad- 
mired that  little  devil,  he  told  me — one  of  the 
nicest  small  imps  sent  forth  from  the  Inferno. 
I  tore  down  country  lanes  with  him,  or  through 
folds  in  the  downs,  my  loose  black  hair  flying 


2:^0 


Rosalba 


comet-wise  behind  me.  My  hair  is  an  an- 
archist :  it  despises  the  governmental  restraint 
of  hairpins.  Prim  and  trim  at  the  start,  it 
bursts  its  iron  bonds  before  the  second  mile- 
stone. Arthur  loved  to  see  it  so,  "That 
suits  you  best,"  he  used  to  say,  after  I  had 
reached  the  mystic  age  of  "  putting  it  up,"  and 
nature  tore  ft  down  again.  "  Rules  are  not 
for  you,  Dru.  You  are  a  lawlessness  unto 
yourself ;  and  the  lawlessness  pleases." 

John  did  not  bicycle  ;  his  particular  vanity 
was  golf,  the  most  soberly  diplomatic  and 
judicial  of  games ;  a  Lord  Chancellor  might 
play  at  it,  or  even  an  Archbishop.  Still,  to 
prove  to  me  that  he  rose  superior  to  prejudice, 
he  gave  me  a  cyclometer.  "  Does  it  go  well  ?  " 
he  asked  me  when  I  returned  from  my  ride,  all 
dusty  and   panting,  on  the   first  day  I  used 

it. 

"  Capitally,"  I  answered,  pinning  my  hair  in 
a  knot.  "  I  tried  it  with  several  measured  miles, 
and  it  keeps  splendid  space."      ^ 

"  Keeps  what  ?"   he  asked,  looking  puzzled. 

"  Splendid  space,"  I  answered,  giving  the 
pedals  a  quick  twirl.  "  You  say  of  a  watch 
that  it  keeps  splendid  time,  John;  so,  by 
parity  of  reasoning"   (it  was    his  own   pet 


^■■i 


MV 


I  Take  to  Authorship 


231 


ir  is  an  an- 
ntal  restraint 
the  start,  it 
second  m lie- 
so,  "That 
,  after  I  had 
ng  it  up,"  and 
ules  are  not 

lessness  unto 

I) 
:ases. 

ticular  vanity 

plomatic   and 

ncellor  might 

lop.     Still,  to 

r  to  prejudice, 

2S  It  go  well  ?" 

m  my  ride,  all 

t  day  I  used 

ing  my  hair  In 
leasured  miles, 

oklng  puzzled. 
:d,  giving  the 
iay  of  a  watch 
John ;  so,  dy 
his  own   pet 


phrase"),  "  I  suppose  to  keep  splendid  space  is 
the:  proper  virtue  of  a  cyclometer." 

He  stroked  a  dubious  chin  with  deliberative 
finger  and  thumb.  "  What  odd  expressions 
you  use,  Rosalba  ! "  he  remarked  at  last,  in  a 
half-remonstrant  voice.  "  You  should  purify 
your  style — by  reading  Dryden." 

"  Dryden  says  nothing  about  bicycles,"  I 
replied,  caressing  my  little  steed  as  if  it  were  a 
pet  mare,  and  stroking  the  saddle  fondly. 
We  were  in  front  of  Sir  Hugh's  grass-plot — 
the  conventional  green  oval  which  carriages 
sweep  round. 

'•  I  am  not  qu-te  sure  that  the  world  was  not 
better  without  them,"  bemused  on.  "  I  agree 
with  Bowles  that  I  do  not  care  to  ride  iron- 
mongery. And  many  of  the  woi-.^n  who 
bestride  bicycles  nowadays  are  of  such  an 
ungraceful  type.  Just  look  at  that  angular 
Miss  Fitzroy,  who  is  leaning  on  her  machine 
over  there,  talking  to  Linda!  So  different 
from  Linda's  flowing  carriage !  And  her  feet 
— how  unwomanly  ! " 

"They  must  be  cubic  feet,"  I  exclaimed, 
glancing  across  at  them. 

"  My  dear  Rosalba !  A  cubic  foot  is  not 
larger  than  other  feet ;  it  is  a  square  foot  in 


232 


Rosalba 


three  dimensions.  Ask  Miss  Westmacott  to 
make  this  clear  to  you.  On  the  literary  side, 
you  are  not  without  culture ;  what  you  want 
is  mathematical  and  scientific  training." 

Arthur  had  strolled  up  meanwhile.  '*  And 
what  you  want,  Stodmarsh,"  he  broke  in, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  saddle,  "  is  a  sense  of 
humour.  Get  Dru  to  supply  you  with  some 
of  her  surplus  stock." 

John  looked  decidedly  black.  He  was  serene 
as  a  rule  in  his  placid  consciousness  of  his  own 
superiority  to  the  rest  of  the  race  ;  but  if  there 
is  one  imputation  which  no  human  being, 
young  or  old,  can  endure  with  equanimity,  it 
is  the  imputation  of  a  lack  of  humour. 

So,  to  turn  the  subject,  he  drew  me  aside 
half  paternally  with  one  arm  round  my  neck. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ventured  on  that 
familiarity,  and  it  jarred.  "  How  pretty  those 
flower-beds  are!"  he  said,  making  the  easiest 
remark  that  occurred  to  him  in  his  confusion. 
"Sir  Hugh  has  really  a  first-rate  gardener. 
The  place  is  kept  perfectly." 

"My  dear  John!"  I  cried.  "Those  stiff 
regular  circles!  Concentric  rows!  Scarlet 
geranium,  blue  lobelia,  yellow  calceolaria! 
The  very  beggary  of  taste— the  refuge  of  the 


I  Take  to  Authorship 


233 


'estmacott  to 
literary  side, 
[lat  you  want 
ining." 

vhile.  "  And 
le  broke  in, 
•  is  a  sense  of 
'ou  with  some 

He  was  serene 
ess  of  his  own 
e  ;  but  if  there 
human  being, 
equanimity,  it 
imour. 

Irew  me  aside 
Dund  my  neck, 
itured  on  that 
w  pretty  those 
ing  the  easiest 
his  confusion, 
rate  gardener. 

"Those  stiff 
rows !  Scarlet 
w  calceolaria ! 
e  refuge  of  the 


incompetent !    You  can't  mean  to  tell  me  you 
really  like  them.      I  call  them  vulgar." 

John  was  quite  huffy.  He  drew  himself  up 
very  straight  and  expanded  his  chest  beneath 
the  spotless  white  waistcoat.  His  fingers 
tO)  .id  almost  nervously — if  John  could  be 
nervous — with  the  seals  on  his  watch-chain. 
"  My  child,"  he  said,  in  a  crushingly  authorita- 
tive voice,  "  I  am  head  of  a  department  in  a 
Government  office,  and  fellow  of  an  Oxford 
college.  I  think  I  ought  to  know  what  is 
vulgar  as  well  as  you  do." 

I  saw  I  had  hurt  him,  and  I  drew  back  at 
once.  "Yes,  John,"  I  answered  meekly.  He 
was  really  very  good  and  kind  and  generous 
— and — a  bargain  is  a  bargain.  Besides,  I 
felt  grateful  to  him  for  one  piece  of  good 
taste  which  I  detected  in  the  inflection  of  his 
voice  as  he  spoke  his  last  sentence.  He  was 
just  going  to  imply  that  while  he  was  the  fellow 
of  an  Oxford  college,  /  was  only  a  poor  waif 
and  stray,  of  doubtful  Italian  origin,  picked  up 
on  the  highroad.  But  his  better  nature  in- 
tervened in  time,  and  he  checked  his  tongue 
before  even  his  tone  suggested  anything  to 
hurt  me  unnecessarily.  I  noted  the  altered 
tinge  and  gave  him  due  credit  for  it. 


234 


Rosalba 


But  at  the  same  time  I  felt — well,  scarlet 
geraniums,  you  know !  And  I  a  born  Italian, 
with  an  eye  for  colour  ! 

Arthur  Wingham  respected  my  faculty  in 
that  respect,  and  so  did  Auntie.  She  took  me 
often  to  Arth'.r's  rooms,  and  there  he  consulted 
me  at  times  about  the  arrangement  of  the  folds 
and  shadows  in  draperies.  So  much  depends 
upon  the  tone  in  the  shadows.  You  make  or 
mar  a  picture  by  one  pleat  or  wrinkle  too  few 
or  too  many. 

Auntie  and  Arthur  also  encouraged  me  in 
another  small  fad  of  mine — they  read  or  list- 
ened to  my  first  literary  efforts.  Oh,  those 
stiff  little  tales — so  crude,  so  amateurish !  I 
keep  them  still,  and  die  of  laughing  at  them. 
John  did  not  quite  approve  of  these  girlish  at- 
tempts of  mine  to  write  stories.  "  They  are 
an  endeavour  on  the  part  of  an  immature 
mind  "  he  said,  in  his  austere  way,  "  to  do  that 
which  only  mature  minds  are  fitted  to  accom- 
plish." 

"  But  surely,  John,"  Auntie  cried,  "  it  must 
be  good  for  her — as  practice." 

"  You  wrote  Latin  verse  at  school  yourself, 
you  know,"  Arthur  suggested,  for  they  had 
been  at  Rugby  together. 


1 


I  Take  to  Authorship 


235 


-well,  scarlet 
born  Italian, 

ny  faculty  in 
She  too!"  me 
;  he  consulted 
[It  of  the  folds 
nuch  depends 
You  make  or 
inkle  too  few 

Liraged  me  in 
r  read  or  list- 
;.  Oh,  those 
lateurish !  I 
ling  at  them, 
lese  girlish  at- 
.  "  They  are 
an  immature 
yr,  "  to  do  that 
ted  to  accom- 

ried,  "  it  must 

hool  yourself, 
for  they  had 


'•  M  'yes.  That  was  different,"  John  replied, 
snapping  his  mouth  down  firmly.  "  We  wrote 
them  as  an  exercise,  under  proper  supervision, 
and  with  critical  correction  of  our  errors  by 
our  elders.  I  have  always  considered  that 
part  of  my  success  as  a  .vriter  of  State  Papers  " 
— he  never  alluded  to  his  dispatches  except  as 
State  Papers  ;  it  sounded  so  important — "  has 
been  due  to  the  excellent  training  I  received 
in  Latin  prose  under  Jex-Blake  at  Rugby. 
Mind,  I  say  part  only,"  he  added  as  an  after- 
thought ;  **  for  much,  of  course,  must  always 
be  attributed  to  the  individual  bent  of  mind. 
The  statesman  may  be  trained  ;  but  he  is  born, 
not  manufactured."  And  he  folded  his  um- 
brella tight,  as  was  ever  his  wont  when  he  re- 
flected on  the  seriousness  of  his  own  position. 
John  seldom  appeared  in  public  without  an 
umbrella,  rolled  as  small  as  possible  ;  't  was  an 
element  of  religion  with  him ;  he  would  have 
carried  it  in  Sahara. 

In  spite  of  John,  however,  the  impulse  to 
write  was  in  me,  and,  well  or  ill,  I  wrote  ac- 
cordingly. The  spirit  bloweth  where  it  listeth, 
and  no  man  can  hinder  it.  High  or  low  it 
blows;  for  honour  or  dishonour.  Arthur 
Wingham  took  a  great  interest  in  these  my 


J 


236 


Rosalba 


early  little  efforts.  He  kindly  gave  them  that 
critical  correction  of  an  elder  mind  to  which 
John  attached  such  immense  importance.  It 
was  he,  indeed,  who  first  suggested  to  me  the 
existence  of  style.  My  own  small  tales  were 
as  wholly  improvised  as  my  childish  plays  on 
the  highway.  I  showed  them  to  him  or  read 
them  aloud,  and  he  pointed  out  to  me  the 
commonplace  rawness  of  their  workaday  word- 
ing. Not  a  sentence  or  a  thought  struck 
out  with  a  flash  of  light,  like  sparks  from  a 
flinty  road  :  all  plain  and  colourless.  "  Re- 
collect," he  said,  "it  is  not  literature  to 
write  down  events  or  ideas  in  the  chance 
form  that  first  happens  to  occur  to  you  ;  't  is 
studious  care  of  the  phrase,  the  epithet,  the 
emotional  atmosphere  of  words,  that  gives 
literary  value." 

"  But  surely,  Dudu,"  I  objected — he  made 
me  call  him  Dudu — "  the  great  poets  were  in- 
spired ;  they  spoke  the  visions  that  occurred 
to  them  in  the  words  that  nature  and  their 
own  genius  supplied." 

"  I  think  not,"  he  answered ;  and  I  always 
felt  Arthur  was  a  fine  critic — indeed,  I  believe 
he  would  have  succeeded  better  in  literature 
than  in  art  had  it  not  been  for  his  modesty. 


il 


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I  Take  to  Authorship 


237 


ave  them  that 
itnd  to  which 
iportance.  It 
ted  to  me  the 
all  tales  were 
dish  plays  on 
)  him  or  read 
It  to  me  the 
arkaday  word- 
lought  struck 
(parks  from  a 
urless.  "  Re- 
literature  to 
n  the  chance 
ir  to  you  ;  't  is 
e  epithet,  the 
Is,    that  gives 

ted — he  made 
poets  were  in- 
that  occurred 
;ure  and  their 

and  I  always 
leed,  I  believe 
r  in  literature 
r  his  modesty. 


"If  you  read  your  Shakespeare  with  open  eyes 
you  will  see  for  yourself  with  what  consum- 
mate skill  the  phrase  is  varied,  with  what 
elaborate  care  the  sentence  is  built  up  and  the 
image  perfected.  His  vocabulary  alone  be- 
trays years  of  accumulation.  Most  readers 
fancy  that  Shakespeare  trilled  forth  his  native 
wood-notes  wild  as  spontaneously  as  a  thrush 
or  a  linnet.  I  cannot  agree  with  them.  No 
man  had  ever  a  brain  so  astounding  that  it 
could  spin  out  those  endless  felicities  of 
phrase  with  a  running  pen.  That  is  art,  not 
nature." 

"  But  in  your  own  art,"  I  cried,  "  see  how 
certainly,  Dudu,  you  and  Auntie  can  draw  a 
figure,  perfect  in  line  from  the  first,  with  abso- 
lute knowledge.  It  needs  no  alteration  ;  it  is 
right  from  the  beginning." 

"  That  is  true  of  Linda's  work — yes ;  and  of 
all  consummate  artists.  But  why  ?  Because 
long  study  has  taught  them  how  to  see  the 
true  line  before  they  set  pencil  to  paper.  Skill 
like  that  comes  not  by  nature,  but  by  long 
study,  long  observation,  long  practice." 

"  And  may  not  the  artist  in  words, '  I  asked, 
"  attain  in  time  a  like  mastery  of  his  craft  ? 
We  beginners  need  to  mend  and  tinker  our 


238 


Rosalba 


sentences;  a  Ruskin  or  a  Meredith  smites  out 
at  one  blow  the  perfect  image." 

"That  is  true  too,"  he  answered ;" but 
why?  Because  they  have  learnt  their  art. 
You  must  be  an  apprentice  first  before  you 
become  a  master-craftsman." 

I  do  not  know  that  I  agreed  with  him ;  I  do 
not  know  that  I  agree  with  him  even  now.      I 
am  by  no  means  sure  that  the  truest  literature 
is  not  that  which  wells  up  spontaneous  like  a 
limpid  spring   from   the   soul   of  the   writer. 
Erasures,  afterthoughts,  seem  to  me  treason 
to  your  individuality.     Even  in  Dudu's  own 
art,  it  was  his  own  large  insight,  his  strong 
virility,  his  first  broad  conception,  that  I  ad- 
mired, not  his  individual  touches.      I  dislike 
niggling.     But  I  saw  that  so  far  as  this  age  at 
least  is  concerned,  his  view  was  the  sound  one. 
The  world  demands  from  us  now  not  so  much 
great  torsos  as  finished  cameos.     I  set  to  work 
to  curb  and  correct  my  poor  little  style— if  I 
have  one ;  I  tamed  my  wild  zebra ;  I  taught 
him  to  trot  laboriously  in   harness   like   the 
neatly  docked  and  trimmed  Parisian  carriage- 
horses  he  set  before  me  as  models.     So  far, 
that  is  to  say,  as  my  native  intelligence  per- 
mitted me  to  follow  them  ;  for  I  am  a  mount- 


I 


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I  Take  to  Authorship 


239 


ith  smites  out 

wered ;  "  but 
rnt  their  art. 
St  before  you 

irith  him ;  I  do 
even  now.      I 
uest  hterature 
itaneous  hke  a 
of  the  writer, 
to  me  treason 
n  Dudu's  own 
jht,  his  strong 
ion,  that  I  ad- 
les.      I  dishke 
r  as  this  age  at 
the  sound  one. 
»w  not  so  much 
1  set  to  work 
ittle  style — if  I 
ebra;  I  taught 
irness   hke   the 
irisian  carriage- 
lodels.     So  far, 
ntelUgence  per- 
r  I  am  a  mount- 


ain foal  ;  I  submit  ill  to  the  bit,  and  long  at 
every  turn  to  take  it  between  my  teeth  and 
bolt  for  freedom. 

Dudu  particularly  desired  me  to  study  Guy 
de  Maupassant.  He  looked  over  my  work 
with  the  stern  eye  of  a  schoolmaster.  "You 
do  not  pay  enough  attention  to  your  verbs," 
he  would  say.  "Just  look  at  Maupassant's! 
French  verbs  sparkle  and  coruscate.  English 
verbs  lurk  unseen.  But  that  is  not  all.  French 
verbs  clamp  the  whole  together ;  like  the  piers 
of  a  Gothic  church,  they  support  and  sustain 
the  entire  fabric.  English  verbs,  like  pegs  on 
a  clothes-line,  serve  only  to  restrain  a  loose- 
flapping  mass  of  nouns  and  adjectives.  Aim 
a  strengthening  your  verb-vocabulary  ;  if  you 
make  that  strong,  all  the  rest  will  follow." 

And  this  to  the  wayfarer  that  had  learnt 
literature  on  the  highroads  of  France,  impro- 
vising little  plays  for  the  village  mothers  ! 

Nevertheless,  I  felt  his  advice  was  right.  I 
recognised  now  that  writing  was  an  art,  and 
that  Dogberry  was  mistaken  in  his  pretty 
belief  that  it  came  by  nature. 

John  Stodmarsh  v;as  kind  about  instructing 
me  too  :  he  took  under  his  direction  my  studies 


I 


240 


Rosalba 


in  logic  and  political  economy.     On  both  of 
these  subjects  he  lent  me  books  and  gave  me 
impromptu  lectures.     I  read  Mill  and  Jevons  m 
my  leisure  hours  to  please  him.     But  some- 
.  ow,  though  it  sounds  ungrateful  to  say  so,  I 
could  never  take  quite  the  same  interest  m 
John's  lucid  explanation  of  the  relations  be- 
tx^een  capital  and  labour,  or  in  his  sedative 
discourses  on  spheres   of   political    influence, 
that  I  took  in  Arthur  Wingham's  remarks  on 
rhy  hm  in  French  sentences.     Their  soporific 
quality—     But  John  was  really  an  excellent 
fellow.     If  I  have  ever  laughed  at  him  my 
laugh  had  no  malice  in  it. 

About  Dudu's  own  art  I  will  not  trust  my- 
self to  speak.  He  preached  a  Gospel  in  his 
pictures.  'Twas  a  vigorous,  original,  per- 
sonal Gospel— a  virile  evangel ;  strong  meat 
for  men ;  the  world  has  not  yet  accepted  it. 
Like  Roiaert  Browning's  Grammarian,  "He's 
for  the  morning."  Perhaps  some  day  I  may 
write  about  Dudu's  Gospel,  but  not  just  yet. 
I  do  not  feel  mv  wings  strong  enough. 

Dear,  modest,  self-effacing,  calm-souled 
Dudu  1  He  held  his  Gospel  so  strenuously 
that  he  forgo,  to  adveitisp  And  the  world 
to-day  (ar>  General  Booth  knows)  is  converted 
by  advertisement. 


On  both  of 
;  and  gave  me 
and  Jevonsin 
1.  But  some- 
ul  to  say  so,  I 
ne  interest  in 
i  relations  be- 
n  his  sedative 
;ical  influence, 
I's  remarks  on 
Their  soporific 
y  an  excellent 
ed  at  him  my 

I  not  trust  my- 
L  Gospel  in  his 
,  original,  per- 
l ;  strong  meat 
^et  accepted  it. 
umarian,  "  He's 
3me  day  I  may 
iut  not  just  yet. 
enough. 

g,     calm-souled 

so  strenuously 

And  the  world 

Ns)  is  converted 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A    SLIGHTED    COMMANDMENT 

I  CALL  the  upper  and  the  nether  gods  to 
witness  that  I  was  guiltless  of  intent  to 
wreck  Miss  Westmacott's  happiness.  But 
towards  the  end  of  my  third  year  at  the  High 
School  for  Young  Ladies  an  Event  happened. 

It  was  a  Tuesday ;  and  Tuesday  afternoon 
was  always  a  half-holiday  at  ours  as  at  other 
High  Schools.  For  you  may  naturally  imagine, 
Events  were  not  likely  to  occur  in  Miss  West- 
macott's establishment  except  on  half-holidays, 

I  had  had  a  slight  altercation  that  morning 
with  Her  Imperturbability.  It  arose  out  of  a 
question  of  faith  and  morals.  As  a  rule,  Miss 
Westmacott  left  all  such  questions  severely 
alone,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  She  was 
afraid  of  them,  three  deep.  In  the  fi'-^t  place, 
she  was  aware  of  the  fact  that  I  had  been 
brought  up  a  Catholic.     In  the  second  place, 

i6 

241 


242 


Rosalba 


she   knew  that   unhappily,  by  my  guardian's 
wish,  I  was  exempt  from  all  manner  of  relig- 
ious instruction.     And  in  the  third  place,  she 
was  never  quite  sure  what  unexpected  bomb- 
shell a  child  of  the  open  air,  a  southern  woman, 
reared  by  One-eyed  Calenders  and  Italian  or- 
gan-grinders,   might   fling    broadcast   at   any 
moment  among  the  innocent  English  ranks  of 
the  Select  Young  Ladies.     She  pictured  them 
gaping  open-mouthed  at  my  blazing  indiscre- 
tions.    To  be  foreign,  to  be  a  Papist,  to  be  the 
ward  of  a  gentleman  of  agnostic  leanings,  and 
to  have  been  dragged  up  on  the  highroads  of 
continental  Europe— can  you  figure  to  yourself 
a  more  appalling  combination  of  adverse  cir- 
cumstances in  the   eyes   of   a   Survival   in  a 
crimped  cap  and  corkscrew  ringlets  ? 

So  Miss  Westmacott  as  a  general  principle 
excepted  me  altogether,  not  merely  from  those 
lessons  in  the  names  of  Jewish  kings  and  the 
doubtful  doings  of  Assyrian  harems  which  go 
by  the  comical  name  of  "  religious  instruction," 
but  also  from  such  casual  moral  remarks  as  she 
addressed  to  her  classes  in  the  course  of  other 
subjects.  She  feared  I  might  draw  her  into 
irreverent  discussions,  or  question  the  finality 
of  her  ethical  principles.     On  this  special  occa- 


A  Slighted  Commandment       243 


Tiy  guardian's 
nncr  of  relig- 
lirtl  place,  she 
pected  bomb- 
ithern  woman, 
ind  Italian  or- 
idcast   at   any 
iglish  ranks  of 
pictured  them 
azing  indiscre- 
ipist,  to  be  the 
:  leanings,  and 
e  highroads  of 
ure  to  yourself 
)f  adverse  cir- 
Survival   in  a 
lets? 

neral  principle 
rely  from  those 
kings  and  the 
irems  which  go 
us  instruction," 
remarks  as  she 
course  of  other 
draw  her  into 
Lion  the  finality 
his  special  occa- 


sion, however,  h  propos  of  I  forget  what  partic- 
ular I'lantagenet  prince,  she  happened  to  lay 
down  the  general  law  that  implicit  respect  as 
well  as  implicit  obedience  was  due  from  child- 
ren to  parents.  "  You  must  honour  your 
father  and  your  mother,"  she  remarked  in  her 
massive  way,  with  a  clenching  nod  of  the 
crimped  cap,  "  not  merely  because  they  possess 
qualities  deserving  of  honour,  but  also  because 
it  is  God's  ordinance." 

"  How  can  you  honour  them,  though,  if  they 
have  no  qualities  that  command  respect  ? "  I 
objected.     "  That 's  clearly  ridiculous." 

*'  My  dear  Rosalba !  what  dreadful  senti- 
ments !  A  parent  with  no  qualities  that  com- 
mand respect !  If  you  think  such  unbecoming 
things  yourself,  you  should  at  least  refrain 
from  suggesting  them  to  your  innocent  com- 
panions." 

"  But  who  could  honour  a  drunkard  or  a 
thief  ? "  I  asked,  growing  warm — my  logical 
sense  being  clearly  outraged. 

The  feebly  Roman  nose  sniffed  the  air  with 
dilated  wings,  and  the  corners  of  the  sleek, 
camel-lipped  mouth  went  down  in  little  puckers 
of  gathering  disapprobation.  "  My  dear  Ro- 
salba," Miss  Westmacott  said  again,  her  faint 


244 


Rosalba 


moustache  bristling,  "  I  was  thinking,  of  course, 
of  girls  brought  up— well,  the  girls  you  meet 
here— in  this  class-room— do  not  associate  with 
thieves  or— er— drunkards."  She  uttered  the 
painful  word  with  a  natural  shrinking, 

"  But  we  were  talk^'^gof  general  principles," 
I  retorted.  Once  set  on,  I  could  not  withdraw 
till  we  had  threshed  out  the  question  with 
Latin  logic.  "  You  put  it  generally,  that  un- 
der all  circumstances  we  must  honour  our 
fathers  and  our  mothers." 

"  I  honoured  my  own  dear  mother — "  Miss 
Westmacott  began.  She  was  pure  Anglo- 
Saxon  in  her  inability  to  grasp  a  logical  idea. 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course,"  I  interrupted.  "  I  can 
imagine  that.  I  can  picture  >our  mother."  I 
pictured  her  at  once  af^or  my  accumulated 
knowledge  of  the  insir.id  miniatures  of  fifty 
years  ago — an  equally  massive  lady  with  a  still 
more  Roman  nose,  still  stiffer  curls,  and  a  still 
bigger  cap  with  large  frills  round  the  edges. 
"  But  how  can  anyone  honour  a  father  or 
mother  who  treats  her,  say,  with  injustice — 
gross,  palpable  injustice  ? " 

Miss  Westmacott's  face  summed  up  the 
sanctions  of  morality  and  religion.  The  faint 
moustache  positively  quivered.    "  Rosalba,"  she 


A  Slighted  Commandment       245 


ing,  of  course, 
iris  you  meet 
associate  with 
e  uttered  the 
king. 

al  principles," 
not  withdraw 
juestion  with 
rally,  that  un- 
t  honour  our 

jther — "  Miss 
pure  Anglo- 
.  logical  idea, 
pted.  "  I  can 
ir  mother."  I 
\f  accumulated 
itures  of  fifty 
ady  with  a  still 
jrls,  and  a  still 
ind  the  edges, 
r  a  father  or 
ith  injustice — 

mmed  up  the 
on.  The  faint 
'•  Rosalba,"  she 


said  briefly,  drawing  herself  up  very  stiff  like 
an  archaic  Artemis,  "you  may  consider  this  a 
proper  subject  for  argument  and  debate,  /do 
not ;  and  before  these  girls,  for  whose  teach- 
ing /  am  responsible,  I  must  request  you  to 
abstain  from  further  remarks  upon  it.  It  is 
our  clear  duty  in  all  stations  of  life  to  honour 
our  parents,  irrespective  of  their  particular 
failings  or  weaknesses.  We  should  shut  our 
eyes  to  all  such.  We  should  decline — nay, 
more,  we  should  be  unable  to  recognise  them. 
The  discussion  is  now  closed. — Ethel  Moriarty, 
what  happened  to  the  prince  as  the  result  of 
this  unnatural  and  unfilial  conduct  ?  How  did 
Providence  frustrate  his  nefarious  plans  against 
the  crown  of  his  father  ?  " 

In  Miss  Westmacott's  mind,  to  ignore  was 
to  abolish. 

That  afternoon  we  went  out  for  our  exhilar- 
ating walk,  as  usual,  in  Regent's  Park.  It  was 
our  sole  form  of  exercise.  We  were  crocodil- 
ing toward  the  gate — the  elder  girls  at  the 
crocodile's  head,  and  the  younger  ones  filing 
off  by  degrees  toward  his  tail  in  the  background 
— when  near  a  corner  of  the  road  an  old  woman 
came  up  and  began  to  beg  from  us.  She  had 
been  slouching  along  with  a  ragged  man,  but 


246 


Rosalba 


she  left  him  to  come  towards  us.  I  call  her  an  old 
woman,  because  that  was  how  she  struck  me  at 
first,  though  on  looking  nearer  I  could  see  she 
was  not  so  much  old  as  sodden  with  drink,  and 
aged  before  her  time  by  want  and  exposure. 
She  was  of  a  type  quite  familiar  to  me — just 
such  a  broken-down,  ruinous  woman-tramp  as 
those  who  trailed  in  ill-fitting  ghosts  of  shoes 
after  the  One-eyed  Calender  and  the  First 
Murderer.  I  drew  aside  my  dress  as  she 
pass..i  me;  Heaven  forgive  my  pride!  I  did 
not  care  now  for  the  hem  of  my  garment  to 
brush  against  her. 

My  instructress  just  in  front,  under  full  can- 
vas, with  Ethel  Moriarty,  was  talking  massively 
to  her  but  at  me  on  the  eternal  and  immutable 
duty  of  implicit  obedience  to  and  respect  for 
parents.  The  will  of  God  was  clear.  Miss 
Westmacott  had  no  room  in  her  brain  for 
doubts  :  she  had  fathomed  to  an  ell  the  mind 
of  Omnipotence.  "  One  knows,  of  course,"  she 
said  in  a  sleek  little  deprecating  voice,  "  that 
there  are  ranks  in  society  where  it  must  be 
difficult  to  some  extent  for  children  always 
heartily  to  follow  that  particular  commandment; 
they  may  have  to  close  their  eyes  with  an  ef- 
fort against  the  true  character  of  dissolute  or 


I 


A  Slighted  Commandment       247 


call  her  an  old 
e  struck  me  at 

could  see  she 
/ith  drink,  and 
and  exposure, 
r  to  me — just 
)man-tramp  as 
hosts  of  shoes 
and   the  First 

dress  as  she 
y  pride  !  I  did 
ny  garment  to 

under  full  can- 
king  massively 
and  immutable 
nd  respect  for 
ls  clear.  Miss 
her  brain  for 
in  ell  the  mind 
of  course,"  she 
ig  voice,  "that 
;re  it  must  be 
hildren  always 
;ommandment; 
yes  with  an  ef- 
of  dissolute  or 


abandoned  parents;  and  one  admits  that  in 
such  cases  the  struggle  may  be  hard — though 
even  there,  we  know,  for  duty's  sake  it  should 
be   fought   out  and   Satan   conquered.      But 

happily  in  our  class  of  life " 

At  that  precise  moment  the  woman  in  the 
road  drew  near  the  curb  and  began  in  a  whin- 
ing voice,  "  Ah,  thin,  me  dear  young  lady,  't  is 
yerself  that  'ud  be  afther  helping  a  poor  hun- 
gry soul,  bless  the  pretty  face  of  ye,  for  sorra 
a  bit  or  a  sup  has  passed  my  lips — "  She 
drew  back  with  a  quick  scream :  "  Holy  Mother 
of  God  !— shure  if  it  is  n't  Rosalba ! " 

I  shrank  back  into  myself.  "Mother!"! 
cried,  with  a  catch  in  my  throat.  "  Mother  ! " 
She  took  three  short  steps  forward,  Agag- 
wise,  like  one  who  treads  hot  coals.  Then  she 
stared  into  my  face.  "  An'  phwat  *ud  ye  be 
doin'  here,"  she  asked,  still  half  incredulous, 
"dressed  loike  a  lady  an'  all — ye  that  run 
away  from  home  wid  a  tramp  in  Italy  ?  " 

She  made  as  though  she  would  fling  her  arms 
around  me.  I  withdrew  in  horror.  Yet  the 
sense  that  this  was  my  mother — my  mother  ! — 
filled  me  with  double  shame — shame  that  she 
should  be  such ;  shame  at  my  shame  of  her. 
I  could  not  refuse  her  embrace  ;  I  could  not 


248 


Ros'.iba 


permit  it.  I  longed  for  earth  to  yawn  and 
swallow  me  whole.  I  envied  Korah,  Dathan, 
and  Abiram.  But  earth  in  emergencies  is 
always  unsympathetic. 

"Ye  remimber   me,  Rosalba  ? ''  she  asked 
coaxingly. 

"  Yes,  Mother —     I  remember  you." 

I  spoke  as  .'n  a  dream.     It  was  too  horrible 
to  realise. 

Miss  Westmacott  had  halted  her  line  at  the 
first  hint  of  this  scene  ;  as  I  uttered  those 
words,  her  feebly  R.oman  nose  assumed  of  a 
sudden  a  force  and  vigour  of  which  I  should 
scarce  have  conceived  it  capable.  "  Girls  !  " 
she  pealed  out  in  a  tone  of  Napoleonic  com- 
mand, "  walk  straight  on  to  the  Park  '.—Ethel 
Moriarty,  I  hold  you  responsible  for  the  good 
conduct  of  all.  Go  once  round  the  inner  circle 
as  usual,  and  then  return  to  the  house. — Ro- 
salba Lupari,  stop  behind  ! — All  the  rest  of 
you,  forward  immediately,  and  do  not  look 
behind  you  ! " 

They  marched  on  like  soldiers.  Miss  West- 
macott turned  to  me  with  stern  severity. 
*'  Rosalba  Lupari,  what  Jo  you  mean  by  apply- 
ing to  this  vile  and  degraded  creature  such  a 
hallowed  name  as  mother  ?  " 


A  Slighted  Commandment       249 


:o  yawn  and 
irah,  Dathan, 
lergencies  is 

''  she  asked 

_    It 
you. 

too  horrible 

er  Une  at  the 
ittered  those 
issumed  of  a 
hich  I  should 
e.  "  Girls ! " 
)oleonic  corn- 
Park  !— Ethel 

for  the  good 
le  inner  circle 
:  house. — Ro- 
ll the  rest  of 

do  not  look 

Miss  West- 
Lern  severity, 
lean  by  apply- 
eature  such  a 


My  mother  pressed  forward.  "  Shure,  the 
young  lady  is  roight,  intoirely,"  she  put  in. 
'  Rosalba  Lupari,  that  's  her  name  ;  an'  me 
own  is  Bridget  Lupari  by  the  same  token  ;  an' 
't  is  her  mother  I  am ;  an'  phwat  young  lady 
like  her  could  let  her  own  mother  want  for  a 
bite  or  a  sup  in  a  Crischun  country  ?" 

Miss  Westmacott  held  her  off  at  arm's- 
length  with  the  handle  of  her  parasol.  "  I  did 
not  address  you,  creature,"  she  said.  "  I 
addressed  Miss  Lupari. — Rosalba,  what  does 
this  mean  ?  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
say  at  once  and  decisively  that  you  have  never 
before  beheld  this  object  ?  " 

"I  can't.  Miss  Westmacott.  She  is — my 
mother ! " 

Miss  Westmacott  stared  at  me  and  then  at 
her.  She  drew  a  long  breath  and  paused  for 
half  a  minute.  "  Well,  I  think  I  may  safely 
say  that  in  all  my  life — "  she  began. 
"  My— mother ! "  I  repeated,  gasping. 
Miss  Westmacott  lost  words  for  a  while. 
"  Your  conduct,"  she  said  at  last,  when  speech 
was  vouchsafed  her,  "is  most  unbecoming  a 
lady  or  a  Christian.  Your  guardian  has  en- 
trusted you  to  my  care,  and  it  is  your  duty  to 
obey  me.     I   order  you   to  declare  that  you 


250 


Rosalba 


I 


have  never  before  set  eyes  on  this  monstrous 
personage ;  and  twice  over  you  decHne  to 
follow  my  plain  instructions.  Say,  'This  is 
not  my  mother  ! '     Rosalba,  I  command  you," 

"  It  ts  my  mother,"  I  replied,  faint  and  ill 
with  horror. 

"  As  you  persist,"  Miss  Westmacott  went 
on  "  there  is  but  one  course  open  to  me."  She 
held  up  her  parasol  to  a  passing  four-wheeler. 
"  Get  in,  Rosalba  Lupari,"  she  said.  I  obeyed 
mechanically. 

"  Now,  creature,"  still  holding  her  off  with 
the  end  of  the  parasol,  "  sit  there  by  the  driver. 
— I  apologise,  cabman,  for  inflicting  this  un- 
savoury being  upon  you ;  but  you  shall  be 
well  paid  for  the  inconvenience. — Get  up  by 
his  side  at  once.     Do  you  hear  me,  woman  ?  " 

My  mother  did  as  she  was  bid,  half  dazed. 
Miss  Westmacott  took  her  seat  by  my  side 
and  drove  home  in  ominous  silence.  Only 
once  did  she  break  it.  '*  This  shows  the  danger 
of  quibbling  casuistically  with  plain  moral  com- 
mands," she  muttered  in  a  high  tone,  with  her 
moustache  all  tremulous.  "  Your  guardian 
stands  to  you  in  the  place  of  a  parent ;  he  con- 
fides you  to  my  care;  it  is  therefore  your 
clear  duty  to  obey  mxC   implicitly.     But   you 


I! 


A  Slighted  Commandment       251 


lis  monstrous 
u  decline  to 
Say,  '  This  is 
mmand  you." 
,  faint  and  ill 

tmacott  went 

I  to  me."   She 

four-wheeler. 

id.     I  obeyed 

r  her  off  with 
by  the  driver. 
:ting  this  un- 
you  shall  be 
. — Get  up  by 
ne,  woman  ?  " 
d,  half  dazed. 
Lt  by  my  side 
iilence.  Only 
)ws  the  danger 
tin  moral  com- 
tone,  with  her 
our  guardian 
irent ;  he  con- 
herefore  your 
:ly.     But   you 


begin  by  denying  the  obligation  to  obey,  and 
you  end  by  claiming  a  drunken  Irishwoman  in 
the  street  as  your  own  mother." 

"  She  rs  my  mother  !  "  I  cried.  "  I  do  not 
love  her ;   but  I  will  not  disown  her." 

We  stopped  at  the  school  door.  "  Get 
down,  creature  !  "  Miss  Westmacott  said  ;  and 
my  mother  descended.  *' Come  into  this 
room ! "  She  opened  the  door  of  the  box- 
room.  "Take  that  chair!"  It  was  a  plain 
wooden  one.  "  Sit  there  while  I  send  for  this 
young  lady's  guardian  ! " 

My  mother  said  never  a  word.  Whether 
she  was  dazed  by  Miss  Westmacott's  master- 
ful manner,  or  waited  to  learn  what  she  could 
make  out  of  this  episode,  I  do  not  know.  But, 
at  any  rate,  she  said  nothing. 

"  Maria,  bring  some  pastilles  and  burn  them 
in  the  room  to  disinfect  this  creature,"  Miss 
Westmacott  went  on,  holding  her  dress  away 
as  if  pollution  might  come  upon  it. — "  Creature, 
do  not  speak  to  her.— Maria,  refrain  from 
asking  the  creature  any  questions. — Rosalba 
Lupari,  bring  me  a  telegram-form  from  the 
study  table." 

I  lirought  it,  trembling. 

Miss    Westmacott    read    over    each    word 


252 


Rosalba 


aloud,  as  she  wrote  it,  with  great  deliberation, 
in  her  calm,  well-bred  way.  "  J  ohn  Stodmarsh, 
Esq."_not  even  in  a  telegram  would  she  have 
docked  dear  John  of  his  Esquiredom  for  un- 
told gold,  let  alone  a  ha'penny—"  Local  Gov- 
ernment Board,  Whitehall.  Come  at  once,  if 
possible.  Rosalba  Lupari  has  committed  a 
grave  indiscretion.— Janet  Westmacott." 

I  ventured  to  remonstrate.  "  Grave  indis- 
cretion is  so  misleading,"  I  said.  "  You  will 
fill  John's  mind  with  false  surmises." 

Miss  Westmacott  was  adamant.  **  What  I 
have  written  I  have  written,"  she  replied. — 
"  Maria— this  at  once  to  the  nearest  telegraph 

office!" 

Till  John  an-ived,  I  was  shut  up  in  the  draw- 
ing-room with  Miss  Westmacott.  Meanwhile 
Maria,  burning  pastilles  from  time  to  time, 
continued  to  watch  and  fumigate  my  mother. 
It  was  like  Trinculo  with  Caliban— "  most 
excellent  monster ! " 

When  John  arrived,  Miss  Westmacott  saw 
him  alone.  Then  they  both  adjourned  to- 
gether to  the  box-room.  Below  in  the  draw- 
ing-room I  heard  the  confused  murmur  of 
voices,  sometimes  loud  and  angry,  sometimes 
low  and  remonstrant.      At   times  my  mother 


I 


-J 


A  Slighted  Commandment       253 


;  deliberation, 
n  Stodmarsh, 
ould  she  have 
edom  for  un- 
-"  Local  Gov- 
me  at  once,  if 
committed  a 
;tmacott." 
'  Grave  indis- 
l.     "You  will 
>es." 

nt.  "What  I 
she  replied. — 
rest  telegraph 

ip  in  the  draw- 
t.  Meanwhile 
time  to  time, 
te  my  mother, 
aliban — "  most 

estmacott  saw 
adjourned  to- 
w  in  the  draw- 
id  murmur  of 
Try,  sometimes 
les  my  mother 


sobbed ;  at  times  she  coaxed  and  wheedled. 
Next  came  a  calm  —  a  sudden  calm.  No 
sounds  reached  me.  At  last  the  front  door 
opened  and  Maria  went  out.  When  she  re- 
turned, it  was  with  a  cab,  and  a  man  whose 
voice  sounded  like  a  policeman's.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  learned  later  he  was  a  commission- 
aire. I  heard  my  mother's  voice  in  the  hall — 
"  Bless  yer  honour's  good  heart ;  and  may  yer 
honour  live  for  ever  an'  doy  happy !  Shu  re 
't  is  yer  honour  that  has  pity  upon  a  poor 
broken  sowl,  far  from  her  friends  an'  her 
counthry  and  the  noble,  grand,  majestic  scayn- 
ery  of  the  West  Coast  of  Oirelanu,  where  she 
was  born  and  bred  among  dacent  people  !  If 
ever  yer  honour  wants " 

"The  cab  is  waiting,"  John  interposed  in 
his  driest  voice.  "  Remember  ;  not  one  step 
nearer  England  than  Paris  or  Brussels;  no 
large  town  ;  and  payable  weekly.  I  stop  it 
if  you  disobey." 

"  Ah,  an'  't  is  for  yer  honour  that  I  '11  be 
praying  all  the  blessed  saints " 

"  Come  to  England,  and  that  instant  it 
ceases." 

I  heard  the  front  door  shut  abruptly,  and 
John   murmur  to   Miss  Westmacott,   "Well, 


254 


Rosalba 


she  won't  trouble  us  again.  We  are  rid  of  her 
at  any  rate.  But,  pah,  what  a  crealare  !  Will 
you  kindly  allow  me  to  go  np:.tairs  and  wash 
her  off  my  hcinds,  so  to  speak  ?  Some  sense 
of  moral  pollution  :  one  needs  disinfection.  A 
little  eau  de  Cologne— o\\n\i2SiV.%,  how  good 
if  you  ! " 

I  burst  out  into  the  hall,  against  John's 
directions  and  Miss  Westmacott's.  "You 
have  n't  let  her  go?"  I  cried.  "Oh,  you 
have  n't  let  her  go  ?  I  did  so  want  to  ask  her 
— about  my  dear,  dear  father." 

John's  face  was  rigid.  "  Your  mother  is 
quite  enough,"  he  answered,  "without  troub- 
ling about  your  father.  But  she  could  tell 
you  nothing.  As  you  may  perhaps  have 
guessed,  she  left  him  two  years  ago." 

And  the  ragged  man  !  With  crimson  cheeks 
I  managed  to  stammer  out  the  one  word, 
"Alone?" 

"  No,  not  alone,"  John  answered.  And 
then  there  was  deep  silence. 

Miss  Westmacott  knew  what  "  God  meant" 
by  everything.  I  wished  I  could  emulate  her. 
It  was  a  sore  trial  of  faith,  a  terrible  mystery, 
why  He  should  have  given  me  such  a  mother. 


:  are  rid  of  her 
reatare  !  Wil 
airs  and  wash 
Some  sense 
isinfection.  A 
iks,  how  good 

against  John's 
cott's.  *'  You 
d.  "Oh,  you 
ant  to  ask  her 

our  mother  is 
without  troub- 
she   could   tell 

perhaps    have 

ago." 

crimson  cheeks 
the  one  word, 

iswered.      And 


•'  God  meant " 
Id  emulate  her. 
srrible  mystery, 
such  a  mother. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

NEWS   FROM    THE    MONTI    BERICI 

I  STAGGERED  up  to  my  own  room  U  a 
while  to  recover  from  my  emo  ■  ^nt 
Turbulent  storms  swept  through  me.  I  longc  *, 
I  prayed,  I  wrestled  for  annihilation.  Y'  and 
by,  John  sent  me  up  word  that  Miss  jc- 
macott  and  he  would  like  to  see  me,  if  I  felt 
capable  of  an  interview.  So  soon  !  so  soon  ! 
I  washed  my  eyes  and  descended.  John  was 
calm  but  kind  in  a  certain  sober,  official,  poli- 
tico-economical fashion.  He  tried  his  best 
not  needlessly  to  hurt  my  feelings.  Up  to 
his  lights,  I  mean  ;  but  dear  John's  lights  on 
emotional  questions  were  not  quite  incandes- 
cent. I  do  not  think  he  understood  how 
poignantly  I  was  suffering. 

"  Miss  Westmacott  and  I  have  been  talking 
this  over,"  he  began  in  a  cumbrous,  hesitating 
way  ;  "and  we  are  both  agreed  that  after  what 

255 


256 


Rosalba 


4 


has  occurred  it  will  be  quite  impossible  for  you 
to  remain  at  this  school  any  longer." 

"  My  duty  to  my  other  pupils  !"  Miss  West- 
macott  interposed,  setting  her  mouth  very  hard 
ind  jerking  out  short  exclamatory  sentences. 
She  sat  like  a  statue,  massively  indignant. 
"  No  animus  against  your  ward,  of  course,  Mr. 
Stodmarsh—most  remarkable  behaviour  !  But 
when  I  first  took  her  in  I  felt  that  the  ex- 
tremely doubtful  antecedents " 

*'  There  is  no  necessity  to  go  into  that  now," 
John  answered  manfully.  "  Rosalba  has  suf- 
fered ;  you  must  see  for  yourself  that  her 
nerves  are  shattered,  temporarily. — We  feel, 
Rosalba,  you  would  not  desire  to  meet  the 
other  girls  after  this  expo— this  unfortunate 
occurrence.  The  woman  who  upset  you  will 
not  return  to  England  ;  I  have  guarded  against 
that ;  and  I  will  keep  myself  informed  through 
her  priest  as  to  her  whereabouts.  But  you  we 
must  place  elsewhere.  On  that,  Miss  West- 
macott  is  quite  as  convinced  as  I  am." 

"  Oh,  impossible  to  keep  her,"  Miss  West- 
macott  intervened,  imperturbable  still,  but 
resolute.  "  Incalculable  harm  done  already  to 
the  other  girls.  My  only  plan  to  say  that  this 
unutterable    Irishwoman  had   been   Rosalba's 


News  from  the  Monti  Berici      257 


)ssible  for  you 
jer." 

"  Miss  Wcst- 
)uth  very  hard 
ory  sentences. 
L;ly  indignant, 
of  course,  Mr. 
haviour !  But 
t  that  the  ex- 

into  that  now," 
)salba  has  suf- 
rself  that  her 
ily. — We  feel, 
;  to  meet  the 
is  unfortunate 
upset  you  will 
uarded  against 
ormed  through 
3.     But  you  we 

It,  Miss  West- 

III 
am. 

r,"  Miss  West- 
able  still,  but 
lone  already  to 
to  say  that  this 
been   Rosalba's 


foster-mother;  and  that  Rosalba  was  so  agi- 
tated at  meeting  her  after  years  of  si  paration 
in  such  a  degraded  condition — a  few  weeks  at 
the  seaside — rest  and  change  of  air — a  com- 
plete nervous  shock  ;  I  see  no  other  way  out 
of  it." 

"Perhaps,  Miss  Westmacott,"  John  inter- 
posed, noting  my  fiery  cheeks,  *'  if  you  were  to 
leave  my  ward  and  myself  alone,  we  might  ar- 
range this  affair  between  ourselves  more  easily." 

Miss  Westmacott  was  on  edge.  She  rose 
and  sailed  loftily  out  of  the  room,  as  I  could 
imagine  her  mother  sailing,  with  a  turban  on 
her  head  and  three  ostrich-feathers  in  her  hair, 
from  George  the  Third's  presence.  "  If  I  am 
not  wanted,"  she  remarked  at  the  door,  her 
nether  lip  protruding  like  the  prototypal  camel's, 
"  I  am  sure  I  am  glad  to  be  relieved  of  this 
most  unpleasant  duty.  I  distrusted  the  girl 
from  the  first ;  but  unhappily  I  permitted  my- 
self, against  my  better  judgment,  to  be  talked 
over  by  Mrs.  Mallory.  I  can  only  pray  now 
that  the  moral  poison  your  proUg^e  has  im- 
ported into  my  school  may  not  have  infected — " 
The  rest  of  the  sentence  died  away  inaudibly 
but  imperturbably  down  the  recesses  of  the 

passage. 

17  t 


/ 


258 


Rosalba 


John  carried  me  off  to  Auntie's  that  very 
ni^'ht.  I  think  his  annoyance  at  Miss  West- 
macott's  point  of  view  mack:  him  more  gentle 
and  sympathetic  than  he  would  otherwise  have 
been.  Me  was  so  nice  and  forbearing,  indeed, 
that  when  he  had  talked  to  me  for  a  while 
about  my  future  and  my  new  school— for  he 
meant  to  send  me  elsewhere— 1  rose  up  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  and  spontaneously  kissed 

him. 

That  encouraged  him  to  say,  "  1  suppose 
you  have  guessed,  Rosalb"  '  what  object  I 
am  educating  you?" 

1  quivered  and  looked  down.  "  I  think  so, 
John,"  I  answered  in  a  low  voice  at  last.  I 
fear  my  downcast  eyes  and  my  whispered 
words  misled  him  a  little ;  for  he  took  my 
hand  in  his  and  murmured  very  softly,  '*  This 
will   make  no  difference  to  me,  dear ;  I  still 

mean  it." 

"  Thank  you,  John,"  I  answered.  I  recog- 
nised that,  from  his  own  standpoint,  this  was 
magnanimous.  "  You  are  very  good  and  kind. 
1  am— deeply  grateful  to  you." 

"Then  you  will  marry  me,  Rosalba?"  he 
went  on,  leaning  forward  almost  affectionately. 
*'  My  poor  child,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you  I " 


1 


News  from  the  Monti  Bcrici      259 


ie's  that  very 
It  Miss  West- 
n  more  gentle 
)therwise  have 
eariny:,  indeed, 
le  for  a  while 
school — for  he 
rose  up  for  the 
neously  kissed 

y,  "I  suppose 
what  object  I 

'•  I  think  so, 
)ice  at  last.  I 
my  whispered 
r  he  took  my 
y  softly,  '*  This 
e,  dear ;  I  still 

ered.  I  recog- 
Ipoint,  this  was 
good  and  kind. 

Rosalba?"  he 
t  affectionately, 
for  you  I " 


His  kindness  went  to  my  heart  like  a  dagger. 
1  felt  myself  a  hypocrite.  '*  Yes— I  will  marry 
you,"  I  faltered  out.  A  bargain  is  a  bargain. 
And  he  had  really  touched  me  that  evening  by 
his  genuine  generosity. 

He  went  on  to  talk  of  his  plans  for  my  hap- 
piness.  "  It  never  occurred  to  me,"  he  said  in 
a  gentle  voice,  "  that  you  wished  to  learn  about 
your  father.  I  thought  the  past  was  a  dead 
past  behind  you.  But  if  you  still  desire  to 
know,  Rosalba,  why  not  write  to  the  Monti 

Berici  ? "     He   laid   the   accent  on  the  right 
syllable  this  time.     He  had  forgotten  me,  but 

remembered  his  lesson. 
Strange  as  you  may  think  it,  that  simple 

idea   had    not   once    yet   dawned    upon    me. 

When  I  left  Italy,  I  seemed  to  leave  all  things 

Italian  behind  me;  and  though  I  had  longed 

and  wondered,  I  never  dreamt  of  writing  to 

ask.     I  told  John  so,  simply. 

"I  will  write  for  you,  dear,"  he  answered, 

with   one   hand   on   my  arm— "  write   in  my 

own  name  to  make  inquiries  merely — write  as 

a  friend  who  is  interested  in  you." 

"Oh,   how  good  of  you,  John!"    I  cried. 

For  myself,  I  feared  and  dreaded  it  so  much, 

1  could  never  have  written. 


J 


26o 


Rosalba 


"  But  you  must  not  expect  a  very  pleasant 
account,"  he  continued,  playing  with  a  paper- 
knife.  "  After  your  mother,  you  know,  we 
can  hardly  look  forward  to  finding  your  family 
—well,  flourishing  and  creditable.     I  fear  your 

father " 

"  My  father,"  I  said,  the  pride  of  the  Lupari 
asserting  itself  even  then,  "is  an  Italian  pa- 
triot." 

"  In  my  experience,"  John  answered,  setting 
his  lips,  "  a  patriot  means  a  man  who  hopes  to 
make  money  out  of  his  country." 

In  spite  of  everything,  I  believed  in  the 
Lupuri  legend  still.  "Ycu  mistake,  John,"  I 
answered.  "He  has  made  sacrifices  for  Italy. 
I  love  and  respect  and  admire  my  father." 

John  was  kind  enough  and  wise  enough  to 
make  no  answer. 

A  few  days  later,  while  I  was  still  at  Auntie's 
looking  about  me  for  a  new  school,  and  recov- 
ering from  my  shock,  which  had  shaken  me  to 
the  core,  John  came  back  with  a  letter.  He 
did  not  show  it  to  me ;  he  read  from  it. 
"Your  father  does  not  write  himself,"  he 
began.     "  This  is  from  your  sister  Mariana." 

I  jumped  at  the  worst,  •'  He  is  dead  ! "  I 
cried.     "Oh,  tell  me!" 


News  from  the  Monti  Bcrici      261 


.  very  pleasant 
•  with  a  paper- 
you  know,  we 
ng  your  family 
e.     I  fear  your 

i  of  the  Lupari 
an  Italian  pa- 

swered,  setting 

n  who  hopes  to 

I) 

)elieved  in  the 
stake,  John,"  I 
rifices  for  Italy, 
my  father." 
wise  enough  to 


John  saw  it  was  useless  to  try  breaking  the 
news.  '•  Yes,  he  is  dead,"  he  answered,  mak- 
ing a  movement  forward. 

I  gave  a  shriek  of  despair.  You  may  fail  to 
understand  it,  but  all  those  years  I  had  loved 
and  longed  for  my  father.  I  had  always  looked 
forward  to  returning  some  day  to  the  Monti 
Berici  to  see  him.  He  had  filled  my  day- 
dreams. And  now,  the  swelling  consciousness 
of  the  wrong  I  had  done  him  broke  over  me 
like  a  wave.  It  stunned  me  with  its  impact. 
Remorse  gnawed  at  my  heart.  I  uttered  one 
wail  of  horror,  and  then  fell  fainting. 


still  at  Auntie's 
lool,  and  recov- 
d  shaken  me  to 
1  a  letter.  He 
read  from  it. 
;e  himself,"  he 
iter  Mariana." 
le  is  dead  !  "  I 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AN    UNREHEARSED    EPISODE 

SOME  days  passed  before  I  had  strength 
of  mind  enough  to  read  Mariana's  letter. 
When  I  steeled  myself  to  turn  to  it,  I  learnt 
that   my   dear   father  had   been   dead    some 
months,  and  that  he  died  a  good  Catholic— 
•'fortified  with   all   the    consolations   of  the 
Church,"  my  sister  said  piously.     Mother  had 
left  him,  Mariana  went   on   without   further 
note,  a  couple  of  years  earlier—"  and  a  good 
thing,  ioo,  per  fortuna,  for  she  was  getting  too 
much  for  us."     That  was  all  about  mother. 
Most   of  the  letter,  however,  rang  with  the 
name  and  the  fame  of  Uncle  Giuseppe,  who 
about  the  same   time   had   come  back  from 
America.     I  vaguely  remembered  this  Uncle 
Giuseppe ;  he  left  us  under  a  cloud  when  I 
was  a  baby.     He  emigrated  to  the  Argentme, 
I  fancy,  which  is  what,  the  Italian  peasant  al- 

262 


"  '■5*T'5^^*='¥^1^^  ■'  ■ 


ODE 

had  strength 
ariana's  letter. 

to  it,  I  learnt 
n   dead    some 
od  Catholic — 
lations   of  the 
Mother  had 
ithout   further 
-"  and  a  good 
vas  getting  too 
about  mother, 
rang  with  the 
Giuseppe,  who 
me  back  from 
red  this  Uncle 

cloud  when  I 

the  Argentine, 
lian  peasant  al- 


An  Unrehearsed  Episode         263 

ways  means  when  he  speaks  of  "  America." 
And  now  he  had  come  back,  Mariana  wrote, 
in  rather  vague  terms— studiously  vague,  I 
thought— and  was  "  taking  care  of  her."  I  laid 
down  the  letter  with  a  sinking  sense  of  being 
alone  in  the  world.  Till  then,  home  meant  to 
me  the  Monti  Berici  still ;  I  had  always  looked 
forward  in  some  dim  future  to  returning  there 
and  meeting  my  father.  Now,  there  was  no 
one  left  in  the  place  whom  I  cared  to  see; 
for,  in  a  way,  I  felt  I  had  outgrown  Mariana. 

Yet  some  things  in  Mariana's  epistle  puzzled 
me.  To  begin  with,  she  wrote  from  Milan. 
Her  letter  gave  no  date  or  place,  it  is  true, 
but  the  postmark  read  "  Milano  "  ;  and  when 
I  examined  the  envelope,  I  found  its  flap  bore 
the  name  and  address  of  a  stationer  in  the 
Via  Alessandro  Manyoni.  Now,  what  could 
Mariana  be  doing  in  Milan  ?  I  wondered. 
Then,  again,  there  was  an  air  of  conscious 
restraint  about  the  wording  of  her  sentences. 
She  told  me  nothing  of  herself,  nothing  of  her 
surroundings.  Her  reticence  seemed  calcu- 
lated. I  gathered  that  Mariana  did  not  wish  me 
to  know  her  exact  whereabouts,  or  desire  that 
I  should  communicate  further  with  her.  She 
wanted  to  cast  me  off.  Perhaps  that  was  natural. 


264 


Rosalba 


I  set  out  for  my  new  school  a  few  weeks 
later.  It  was  a  school  in  the  country  (Heaven 
be  praised !),  kept  by  a  much  younger  and 
more  modern  woman — a  school  of  the  latest 
type,  with  a  brand-new  head-mistress  direct 
from  Girton.  Her  coiffure  suggested  the  higher 
mathematics.  It  was  neatly  braided  in  many 
plaits  and  coils.  She  was  not  mediaeval.  I 
./as  happier  there  than  at  Miss  Westmacott's  ; 
but  I  will  not  trouble  you  much  with  that 
second  school :  it  is  immaterial  to  my  story. 
My  life  lay  outside  it,  in  the  times  I  spent  at 
Auntie's  or  elsewhere. 

During  my  next  vacation,  when  I  was  nearly 
nineteen,  Arthur  Wingham  came  down  to 
stop  at  Auntie's.  He  used  often  to  paint  me 
still,  and  he  made  me  pose  for  him  in  some  of 
my  Shakespearean  scenes,  which  I  still  loved 
to  impersonate,  though  without  the  dollies.  I 
have  said  that  he  made  me  call  him  Dudu— it 
had  been  his  mother's  name  for  him,  he  told 
me  ;  and  I  was  so  fond  of  him  in  a  girlish  way 
that  I  liked  to  call  him  so.  The  Great  Awak- 
ening had  come  upon  me,  but  not  consciously 
as  yet ;  I  thought  we  were  still  just  boy  and 
girl  at  play  together. 

We  rode  often  over  the  open  downs  side  by 


An  Unrehearsed  Episode        265 


a  few  weeks 

mtry  (Heaven 

younger  and 

of  the  latest 

listress  direct 

ited  the  higher 

lided  in  many 

mediaeval.     I 

iVestmacott's ; 

ich  with   that 

to  my  story. 

les  I  spent  at 

n  I  was  nearly 
ime  down  to 
n  to  paint  me 
lim  in  some  of 
h  I  still  loved 
the  dollies.  I 
him  Dudu — it 
ir  him,  he  told 
in  a  girlish  way 
e  Great  Awak- 
lot  consciously 
I  just  boy  and 

downs  side  by 


side  on   our  bicycles.     A  dark,   heather-clad 
ridge  bounded  the  view  from  Auntie's  cottage 
to  westward ;   solitary   clumps   of   Scotch   fir 
stood    out    at   intervals   like  lonely  obelisks 
against  the  pale  sky-line.     There  we  delighted 
to  ride.     After  the   niggling  scenery  of  the 
lowlands,  these  broad  horizons  hold  one.     For 
ixiiles  and  miles  we  saw   neither  house   nor 
man  ;  we  moved  alone  with  nature.     Speckled 
adders  lay  coiled  on  the  road  at  times  ;  the 
cry  of  the  jay  startled  us  from  the  pine-woods. 
Beloved  Pan,  how  I  have  loved  you  !     How 
I  have  seen  you  hali  hide,  goat-footed,  in  cool 
brake  and  moist  thicket!     What  oreads  and 
naiads,  what  fauns  and  sileni  of  my  southern 
home  have  mingled  for  me  with  the  pixies  on 
the   English   moors!      Am  I    not    still    part 
Pagan?     Have  I    not   had  sight  of  Proteus 
rising  from  the  sea,  and  heard  old  Triton  blow 
his  wreathed  horn  ?. 


as 


One  afternoon  Auntie  went  out,  and  I 
left  alone  in  the  studio  with  Dudu. 

"  You  must  sit  for  me  as  Miranda,  1  u," 
he  said,  with  an  almost  imperious  air,  when  I 
strolled  in  after  lunch,  for  he  ordered  me  ibout 
like  a  brother.     "  I  want  to  finish  that      ady." 


266 


Rosalba 


"  Very  well,  Dudu,"  I  answered  submis- 
sively— I  am  an  obedient  creature  when  I  am 
not  in  open  revolt  ;  so  I  went  upstairs  to  ar- 
ray myself  in  the  flowing  white  robe,  almost 
Greek  in  its  simplicity,  which  I  had  devised  for 
the  character. 

When  I  came  down,  Dudu  arranged  my 
draperies  as  he  wanted  them  for  the  study,  and 
posed  my  bare  arms  on  the  parapet  of  paste- 
board rock  in  Prospero's  cave.  I  was  conscious 
of  a  faint  lingering  of  his  fingers  on  my  arms 
as  he  posed  them. 

Then  he  took  up  his  palette  and  stood 
irresolute  in  front  of  the  easel.  I  waited  for 
him  to  begin.  He  looked  up  at  me,  then 
down  at  the  unfinished  study,  then  up  at  me 
once  more,  then  let  his  hand  drop  listless, 

"  Why  don't  you  begin  ? "  I  asked,  quiv- 
ering. 

His  eyes  gazed  through  me.  "  I  can't,"  he 
answered.  "  O  Dru,  Dru,  Dru,  I  don't  want 
to  paint  you  !  " 

"  I  thought  you  liked  painting  me,"  I  mur- 
mured.    My  own  heart  beat  faster. 

He  made  a  quick  little  gesture  of  the  hand. 
"I  love  it,  and  you  know  I  love  it!"  he 
answered. 


An  Unrehearsed  Episode        267 


^ered  submis- 
re  when  I  am 
ipstairs  to  ar- 
robe,  almost 
ad  devised  for 

arranged  my 
:he  study,  and 
ipet  of  paste- 
was  conscious 
s  on  my  arms 

te  and  stood 
I  waited  for 

at  me,  then 
hen  up  at  me 
p  hstless. 

asked,  quiv- 

"  I  can't,"  he 
I  don't  want 

g  me,"  I  mur- 

er. 

e  of  the  hand. 

love    it!"  he 


"Then  why  not  begin?"  I  asked  again. 
My  breath  came  and  went  hurriedly. 

"  Because — because  I  want  to  talk  to  you," 
he  replied,  coming  nearer,  "  not  to  paint  you." 

I  broke  the  pose,  and  drew  back  to  a  chair. 
..  jhf.n— talk,"   I  said  faintly,  letting  myself 

drop  into  it. 

"  I  must  n't,"  he  answered.  "  Ah,  Dru,  you 
understand!  You  know  how  I  feel.  For 
Stodmarsh's  sake  it  would  be  wrong.  It  would 
be — treason  to  Stodmarsh." 

I  knew  he  was  quite  right.  "  It  would,"  I 
answered,  rolling  the  words  on  my  tongue— 
"  treason — to  Stodmarsh." 

"  And  yet,  Dru " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know,  Arthur." 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  grateful  look.  "  We 
two  don't  need  to  speak.  We  understand  one 
another — darling." 

I    nodded     my   head.      "Too    well,    dear 

Arthur." 

"  Dru,  he  is  my  friend." 

"  Dudu,  he  is  my  guardian— and  I  have 
promised  to  marry  him." 

"  But — you  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  never  quite  knew  it — till  to-day,"  I 
answered,  with  a  catch  in  my  throat. 


268 


Rosalba 


"  But — you  suspected  it  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  suspected  it ;  but — I  never 
admitted  it.  I  tried  to  shut  my  eyes.  I  tried 
to  pretend — to  pretend  it  was  only  friendship." 

He  made  the  same  quick  gesture  again. 
"  And  so  did  I.  Fools  both !  The  old,  old 
blind  !      That  silly  pretence,  friendship  !  " 

"  Still,  Dudu,  we  must  n't  say  so  even  to  each 
other." 

"  No,  no.  I  know  that.  I  am  a  brute  to 
have  said  even  as  much  as  I  have  said  to  you." 

We  both  paused  and  drank  one  another  in 
with  our  eyes.  For  a  long  time  neither  spoke. 
Something  thrilled  through  the  air.  Electric 
tremors  came  and  went.  Then  I  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Dudu,  I  must  not  speak  to  you  of  this 
again." 

"  Nor  I  to  you,  dear  one.  For  John's  sake, 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself." 

"  It  was  my  fault.       I  led  you  on." 

"  No,  mine.  I  am  a  man  ;  a  man  is  for 
that ;  I  ought  to  have  been  strong  enough." 

"  We  must  never  do  it  again.'' 

"  Never. — But  still — O  Dru  ! — you  said  you 
loved  me  ! " 

"  N-not  quite." 


An  Unrehearsed  Episode         269 


but — I  never 
eyes.  I  tried 
ly  friendship." 
esture  again. 
The  old,  old 
ndship ! " 
)  even  to  each 

im  a  brute  to 
I  said  to  you." 
ine  another  in 
neither  spoke, 
air.  Electric 
,  I  broke  the 

o  you  of  this 

r  John's  sake, 

on." 

a  man  is  for 

\g  enough." 

-you  said  you 


"  Well,  at  least,  you  admitted  it." 

I  blushed  crimson.  "  I  could  n't  help  it,"  I 
answered.  "  Dudu,  it  was  ever  so  wicked ; 
yet  I  'm  glad  we  know,  because  now — we  un- 
derstand each  other." 

"  We  do." 

"  But  we  must  never  speak  of  it  again.  I 
feel  we  have  done  wrong.  John  has  cause  to 
be  annoyed  with  us." 

There  was  another  long,  delicious  pause. 
This  time,  Arthur  spoke.  "  And  you  mean  to 
marry  him  ?  " 

"  I  must.  There  is  no  other  way.  I  can- 
not get  out  of  it  now.  I  owe  him  so  much ; 
and — a  bargain  is  a  bargain." 

"  You  are  right.  Ah,  Dru,  I  am  so  ashamed 
of  myself  for  this  !  John  has  trusted  us  both. 
We  have  betrayed  his  trust.  We  have  be- 
haved very  ill  to  him." 

"  Very  ill.     I  am  ashamed  of  it." 

"And  of  me?" 

"  No,  never  of  you,  Dudu.  You  love  me. 
How  could  you  help  it,  then  ?  Everything  is 
forgiven  to  one  who  loves  much — quia  mulium 
amavit." 

"  So  we  must  say  good-bye  to  all  this  ?  " 

I  bent  my  head.     "  For  ever," 


270 


Rosalba 


"  If  so,  I  may,  just  this  once — for  good- 
bye ! " 

He  leant  over  me.  My  lit-.?  trembled.  One 
hand  held  my  heart,  to  keep  it  from  bursting. 
"Yes,  once — only  this  once— for  good-bye, 
Dudu!" 

He  stooped  down  and  pressed  my  lips  hard. 
At  that  moment,  oh  how  I  loved  him ! 

Then  we  both  moved  apart — quickly,  re- 
luctantly— and  sat  far  away  from  each  other 
on  the  seats  of  the  studio. 

After  that,  assuming  a  tone  of  cold  morality, 
I  told  him  very  firmly  (from  a  safe  distance) 
how  this  must  never  happen  agai  .  ;  and  how 
wrong  and  deceitful  it  all  was  towards  John ; 
and  how  much  I  really  respected  that  excellent 
man,  in  spite  of  his  little  priggishnesses.       He 
had  always  been  good  to  me,  and  I  had  been  a 
hypocrite.       I  was  a  little  beast  not  to  love 
him  when  he  had  done  so  much  for  me.     I 
could   not   quite   love  him— my  heart  being 
otherwise  occupied — but  I  was  grateful,  really 
grateful  —  I    hoped.      At    any   rate,    not   for 
worlds  would   I   do  anything    to  break   my 
compact.     "  I  love  you,  Dudu ;  but  John  I 
will  marry." 

"  And  when  you   are   married,  Dru,  what 


I 


An  Unrehearsed  Episode        271 


:e — for  good- 

smblcd.  One 
rom  bursting, 
for  good-bye, 

my  lips  hard, 
[him! 

— quickly,  re- 
m  each  other 

cold  morality, 

safe  distance) 

ai  I  ;  and  how 

owards  John ; 

I  that  excellent 

hnesses.       He 

i  I  had  been  a 

5t  not  to  love 

ch  for  me.     I 

y  heart  being 

grateful,  really 

rate,   not  for 

to  break   my 

;  but  John  I 

led,  Dru,  what 


shall  I  ever  do?    You  will  allow  me  to  see 

I  reflected  and  was  wise.  "When  I  am 
married,  Dudu,"  I  said,  shaking  my  head,  "  I 
shall  not  let  you  come  near  me.  You  must 
invent  some  reason  for  dropping  my  acquaint- 
ance. The  great  gulf  of  marriage  must  be 
fixed  between  us.  It  is  the  only  safe  way  "  (see 
how  prudent  I  was !),  "  and  the  only  course  that 
is  just  to  John.  After  what  has  occurred  to- 
day, I  will  not  see  you  at  all — when  once  I 
am  married." 

I  said  it,  firmly  meaning  it.  Yet,  alas  !  how 
weak  is  human  nalure  !  After  I  was  married, 
I  saw  Dudu  every  day ;  and  every  day  I  saw 
him  I  loved  him  better.  Do  not  prejudge  me 
because  I  make  this  avowal.  Wait  till  you 
have  heard  all,  and  then  decide  whether  or 
not  I  was  justified. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


Tllli    LUPAKl 


WHEN  I  was  a  little  over  nineteen,  1 
left    school;    in    the    funny    phrase 
which  girls  use,  "  my  education  was  finished." 
It  might  be  fairer  to  say  it  was  just  beginning. 
I  •'  came  out"  under  Auntie's  auspices.  John 
attached  importance  to  the  social  function  of 
coming  out ;  he  also  designed  that  I  should  be 
presented,  "  on  my  marriage,"  by  Lady  Dud- 
dleswell,  the  wife  of  a  Cabinet  Minister.     My 
future  husband   thought  a  good  deal  of  the 
Duddleswells ;  their  daughter  Gwendoline  he 
often  proposed  to  me  as  a  pattern  of  ladylike 
conduct  and  high   intelligence.     She   had   a 
mind,  he  said  ;  she  was  a  girl  of  understand- 
ing.     My  own   understanding  John   did  not 
rate  high ;  he  thought  me  sprightly  but  shal- 
low.    "My   dear   Rosalba,"  he  wrote  to  me 
once,  •'  by  this  post  I  am  sending  a  note  to 

372 


^_y\<^_J\\j:'-'J'if*^^^-:-?}.HiffW-*^Si-S^^-'- 


'er  nineteen,  1 
funny    phrase 
was  finished." 
just  beginning, 
auspices.  John 
cial  function  of 
hat  I  should  be 
by  Lady  Dud- 
Minister.     My 
od  deal  of  the 
GwendoUne  he 
Lern  of  ladylike 
e.     She   had   a 
of  understand- 
;   John   did  not 
ightly  but  shal- 
le  wrote  to  me 
iding  a  note  to 


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"  The  Lupari 


273 


Linda  to  ask  her  whether  she  and  you  will 
consent  to  be  my  guests  for  a  few  days  at  the 
hotel  at  Lyndhurst  in  the  New  Forest.  I  am 
tired  out  with  my  official  work  ;  and  I  require 
conversation  which  will  involve  no  excessive 
intellectual  effort." 

John  did  not  propose  to  marry  me  at  once. 
In  that,  as  in  everything,  he  was  justice  itself 
to  me.  "  I  should  be  taking  an  unfair  advant- 
age of  you,  Rosalba,"  he  said,  "  if  I  were  to 
urge  you  to  marry  me  before  you  are  twenty- 

T.j 1     „:.,„„   T    iiv»   \Tr)^%r    oriiqrdian   bv 

one.      iuuccu,   3ii»«-«-   X    "*"  j^^'    fy — .. 

courtesy  only  (though  I  have  your  mother's 
authority  in  writing),  I  could  not  do  so  with- 
out your  parents'  consent— and  that,  you  may 
readily  conceive,  I  do  not  choose  to  ask  for." 

"  As  you  wish,  John,"  I  answered,  letting 
my  eyes  rest  on  the  vast  sweep  of  the  sand- 
stone ridge  with  its  solitary  pines.  I  love 
these  great  panoramas  better  than  all  the  para- 
dises of  the  landscape-painters— <5?V5,  they  call 
them.  The  broad  horizons  teach  one  resign- 
ation. For  myself,  I  was  resigned,  i  did  not 
love  John  ;  I  could  not  love  him :  but  I  re- 
spected and  liked  him  ;  and  since  I  was  bound 
to  him  by  every  tie  of  promise  and  mainten- 
ance, what  did  it  matter  to  me  whether  he  mar- 


J 


jy^  Rosalba 

ried  me  this  year  or  next  or  the  year  after  ?  I 
bved  dear  Dudu  ;  I  reaUsed  that  now  ;  but  1 
Tud  never  marry  him.  John  had  clajms  upon 
me  ■  those  claims  I  must  satisfy.  I  could  not  eat 
Ws  bread  for  so  many  years  and  then  turn  round 
and  refuse  to  fulfil  my  part  of  the  bargam. 

The  intervening  time  before  my  marr,^e  I 
soent  with  Auntie-John  paymg  by  arrange 
mC  for  my  board  and  lodging.     He  thought 

"the  best  plan.     But  we  often  went  up  by  m- 
It  LIU-  uv-      r  ^  .       A,,„„„^    Rnad.    bt. 

vitation  to  his  nouse  ...  ..—"--   -•-  _ 

John's  Wood,  where  I  was  '"'"^u^d   <.  t 
friends-wives  and  daughters  of  Cabinet  Min 
erslas  Miss  Lupari,  whom  he  intended  o 
nar%  ■  "  She  lives  at  present  with  her  adopted 
Tunt  my  cousin,  Mrs.  Mallory.-Linda,  dear 
tTl  you'bring  Rosalba  over  to  be  presenu^d 
7o  Lady  Macpherson?"    For  John  made  a 
•;oint  of  doing   everything  .f -ntly  and  m 
order     If  he  married  a  wa.f  and  stray,  he 
would  marry  her  by  the  card,  lest  equ.voca- 

'"S^fdrautrone  such  visit.  1  was  shop- 
ping ^ithAuntiefn  Bond  Street-buymg  a,ry 
little  daintinesses  such  as  John  loved  to  see 
';:' tn-when  a  victoria  drew  up  at  the  door  o^ 
the  shop  we  were  just  qu.ttmg.    A  lady  de- 


The  Lupari 


275 


year  after  ?  I 
lat  now  ;  but  I 
lad  claims  upon 

1  could  not  eat 
then  turn  round 
:he  bargain. 
;  my  marriage  I 
ing  by  arrange- 
g.     He  thought 
1  went  up  by  in- 
r>n<i<^    Rnad.    St. 
itroduced  to  his 

of  Cabinet  Min- 
a  he  intended  to 
with  her  adopted 
ry. — Linda,  dear, 

to  be  presented 
3r  John  made  a 

decently  and  in 
if  and  stray,  he 
rd,  lest  equivoca- 

visit,  I  was  shop- 
;reet— buying  airy 
[ohn  loved  to  see 
r  up  at  the  door  of 
:ting.     A  lady  de- 


scended from  it.     I  must  do  her  the  justice  to 
say  she  was  a  properly  "grand"  lady;  Man- 
ana  would  have  rejoiced  in  her.     But  she  was 
also  strikingly  pretty.     Dark,  mtgnonne,  with 
large  melting  eyes  and  a  delicately  moulded 
nose,    she   had    an   infantine   downiness   and 
roundness  of  face  which  suggested  a  ripe  nec- 
tarine.    Her  own  wee  gloves  were  not  softer 
or  daintier.     She  was  exquisitely  dressed,  with 
rather  more  regard  to  fashion  and  less  to  pict- 
uresqueness  than  I  myself  prefer  ;  but  granted 
the  g-enre,  her  taste  was  unimpeacuiiuic.      x  ..^ 
fluffiness  and  filminess  of  her  fly-away  chiffons 
just  suited  that  waxen   dark   peach-coloured 
cheek.      I    stopped  to   gaze  at  her.     So  did 
Auntie,  frankly. 

It  seemed  an  innocent  babyish  face  withal ; 
but  I  saw,  on  second  thoughts,  it  was  the  inno- 
cence of  a  Greuze,  not  the  innocence  of  an 
Angelico,  or  even  of  a  Reynolds. 

As  I  gazed,  I  was  aware  that  the  lady's  eyes 
lighted  upon  me  with  an  inquiring  glance,  and 
then  retreated  under  shelter  of  the  softly 
fringed  eyelids.  The  length  and  darkness  of 
those  lashes  struck  me  as  strangely  familiar. 
So  did  the  pomegranate  mouth,  the  dimpled 
chin.     But  the  lady  brushed  past  us  as  though 


276 


Rosalba 


she  resented  our  looking  at  her.  She  brushed 
rast  us  with  such  an  air  of  suppressed  eager- 
ness, such  a  furtive  side-glance  under  the  cov- 
erinr  shadow  of  the  long  velvet  lashes,  such  a 
worldly-wise  dimpling  of  the  small  cheeks  by 
the  corner  of  the  rich  mouth,  that  I  felt  sure 
she  was  anxious  to  avoid  our  observation^  I 
allowed  her  to  pass  in  ;  then  1  whispered  to 
Auntie,  "  I  am  going  back  again-to  look  at 

her  " 

She  was  seated  by  the  counter  as  I  entered 
with  her  back  towards  the  door,  and  she  said 
to  the  girl  who  waited  upon  her,  in  a  very  mu- 
sical voice  with  just  the  faintest  tinge  of  Ital- 
ian  accent,  "  I  want  to  see  some  silk  chem  ses 
if  you  please-prettily  trimmed-the  newest 
style— with  coloured  ribbons." 

1  knew  that  silvery-liquid  voice  among  ten 
thousand.     "Mariana!"  I  cried,  faltering.  _ 

She  turned  and  eyed  me  through  a  tortoise- 
shell  eye-glass-one  of  those  atrocious  long- 
handled  aristocratic  outrages  with  which  very 
grand  ladies  choose  to  gorgonise  their  so- 
cial inferiors.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  she  said 
slowly,    "but-you   have    the   advantage  of 


me. 


'Auntie  I"   I   exclaimed,   turning  to  Mrs. 


"The  Lupari 


277 


She  brushed 
jressed  eager- 
inder  the  cov- 
lashes,  such  a 
lall  cheeks  by 
hat  I  felt  sure 
bservation.     I 

whispered  to 
in — to  look  at 

;r  as  I  entered, 
r,  and  she  said 
-,  in  a  very  mu- 
it  tinge  of  Ital- 
e  silk  chem'ses, 
ed — the  newest 

oice  among  ten 
d,  faltering, 
•ough  a  tortoise- 
atrocious  long- 
ivith  which  very 
gonise  their  so- 
ardon,"  she  said 
e   advantage  of 

turning  to  Mrs. 


Mallory,  "  this  is  my  sister^  Mariana,  about 
whom  1  have  spoken  to  you." 

Mariana    transferred    her    stony    stare    to 
Auntie.     I  am  bound  to  admit  she  did  it  thor- 
oughly.    The  set  of  her  small  mouth  spoke 
volumes  of  reticence.     "  Ah,  your  aunt ! "  she 
murmured,  raising  her  arched  eyebrows. 
"  She  is  an  acquired  aunt,"  I  went  on. 
"  Indeed ! "     Her  tone  was  icy. 
-  Mariana,"  I  said  again,  "  don't  you  know 
me?     I  am  Rosalba."  , 

She  did  not  commit  herself.     "Rosalba? 
she  repeated  with  a  far-away  air,  as  if  the 
name  sounded  dimly  familiar,  like  church-bells 
under  water.     ''  You  call  yourself  Rosalba. 

I  knew  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  wait- 
ing to  gain  time  ;  watching  for  straws  which 
might  show  what  way  the  wind  blew ;  and  re- 
flecting whether  or  not  it  would  be  wise  to 
recognise  me.  Was  I  the  sort  of  person  to  do 
her  good  or  harm?  Would  I  assist  or  hurt 
her  social  advancement  ? 

"  I  had  certainly  a  sister  of  that  name  once, 
she  answered  at  last,  in  her  sweet  voice,  after 
she  had  closely   noted   Auntie's    dress,    her 
brooch,  her  gloves,  her  bonnet.     The  small 
mouth  parted  its  lips  a  little.     I  could  see  her 


278 


Rosalba 


making  a  mental  note  to  herself-"  Externally 
presentable  ;  case  for  further  inquiry. 

For  ten  minutes  she  fenced,  turning  over 
the  silk  chemises  meanwhile  and  making  run- 
ning comments  upon  them  intended  to  impress 
us  with  a  proper  idea  of  her  grandeur        I 
can  do  better  in  Paris."   Then  she  drew  Auntie 
aside   and  asked  a  few   direct   questions.     1 
could  not  overhear  them,  but  from  a  stray 
word  or  two  which  reached  me  I  caught  at 
the   dritt   ot    Aunties    an^vcr^.         -^-    i 
niece  .    Name  well  known  as  a  painter. 

'  Gentleman  of  position— head  of  a  de- 
partment in   the   Local   Government   Board 
Not  till  year  afternext.    .    .     ■     iviosc 
liberal  allowance.     .     •     •     Oh  yes,  excellent 
schools.     .     .     .     In  every  way  a  lady 

After  that,  Mariana  tripped  prettily  back  to 
„,e   and  extended  her  hand  with  a  forgiving 
gesture.     "  So   long  since  I  have   seen  you 
dear'"    she  said  with  a  tender  trill   in   that 
musical  voice  of  hers.     "You  fell   upon  me 
like  a  tile,  and  you  can  easily  understand  that, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  I  did  not  recog- 
nise you.-Accordion-pleated,  if  you   please. 
How  much  ?-And  even  when  I  began  to  real- 
ise that  it  was  you-well.  I  wished  to  understand 


"  The  Lupari 


279 


-"  Externally 
uiry." 

turning  over 
I  making  run- 
led  to  impress 
rrandeur.     "  I 
e  drew  Auntie 
questions.     I 
from  a  stray 
e  I  caught  at 
5.      "  Adopted 
n  as  a  painter, 
—head  of  a  de- 
•nment   Board. 
.     .     Most 

I  yes,  excellent 
yr  a  lady." 
prettily  back  to 
rith  a  forgiving 
have  seen  you, 
er  trill  in  that 
a  fell  upon  me 
understand  that, 

did  not  recog- 
if   you   please. 

I I  began  to  real- 
led  to  understand 


your  relation  to-to  that  other  member  of  our 
family  who,  when  I  last  heard  of  her.  was  also 
in  London.  You  will  see  at  once  that  for  a 
person  in  My  position  it  would  be  highly  un- 
desirable to  be  brought  into  contact  with  a 
person  in  hers.  I  have  my  position  to  main- 
tain."    And  Mariana  simpered.  ^ 

"  You  are  married,  I  suppose  ? "  I  said,  just 
a  little  awestruck  at  the  superior  way  in  which 
she  held  out  her  dimpled  cheek  demurely  for 
nie  to  kiss.  I  kissed  it  with  what  I  must  call 
official  affection. 

"Oh  no!  not  married.— I  will  have  three 
of  these,  if  you  please,  and  three  of  the  batiste 
with  the  Valenciennes  edges.— Not  married, 
of  course ;  but  surely  you  have  heard  of  me ; 
you  know  of  my  success  ;  you  read  the  papers  ? 

I  confessed  to  having  failed  to  notice  her 
name  in  the  journals  of  my  native  country. 
What  could  an  English  schoolgirl  know  ot 
Parisian  operatic  triumphs  ? 

Mariana  simpered  again.  "  Uncle  Giuseppe 
has  brought  me  here,"  she  said,  turning  oyer 
some  lace  handkerchiefs  with  a  deliberative 
smile,  and  speaking  sideways  at  me.  "  Caro 
zio  !  I  have  an  engagement  at  the  new  opera- 
house.     I  have  been  singing  in  Pans.     You 


j8o 


Rosalba 


must  s-rely  have  heard  that  Zio  Giuseppe  had 
me   trained  for   the   operatic  stage?     Under 
Ronzi  of  Milan,  you  know— the  last  survivor 
in  Italy  of  the  old  Italian  school  of  singing. 
Zio  Giuseppe  came  back  rich  from  America- 
did  I  mention  it  when  I  wrote  to  you?— and 
he  has  adopted   me,  my  dear,   adopted   me. 
Odd  coincidence   that,   under   such   different 
circumstances,  we  should  both  of  us  have  been 
adopted  !"     And  Mariana  sucked— no  longer 
her  thumb,  but  the  tortoise-shell  ball  in  the 
eagle's  claw  on  the  handle  of  her  umbrella. 

By  this  time  she  had  decided  mentally  that 
I  was  quite  presentable,  and  she  invited  us, 
therefore,  to   drive  with  her  in  her   victoria. 
I  accepted  the  offer  ;  Auntie  declined  :  I  think 
she  left  us  alone  on  purpose.     We  took  a  turn 
round  the  park,  Mariana  dwelling  as  she  went 
on   her   own  present  grandeur,  the  gifts  she 
had  received  from  her  admirers  in  Paris,  the 
applause  she  had  gained  in  the  part  of  Carmen, 
and  the  splendid  prospects  which  opened  out 
before   her.     She   did   not   tell  her   story :  it 
transpired.   Facts  trickled  out  piecemeal.    But 
she  also  managed,  parenthetically,  to  extract 
a  large  amount  of  information  from  me  as  to 
my  own  position   and  future.     She  was  an 


•'The  Lupari 


281 


Giuseppe  had 
tage?     Under 
e  last  survivor 
)ol  of  singing, 
om  America — 
to  you? — and 
adopted   me. 
such   different 
)f  us  have  been 
ced — no  longer 
icll  ball  in  the 
er  umbrella, 
d  mentally  that 
she  invited  us, 
in  her   victoria, 
iclined  :  I  think 
We  took  a  turn 
ling  as  she  went 
r,  the  gifts  she 
;rs  in  Paris,  the 
part  of  Carmen, 
hich  opened  out 
;ll  her   story:  it 
piecemeal.    But 
cally,  to  extract 
n  from  me  as  to 
e.     She  was  an 


adept  in  the  unobtrusive  use  of  the  common 

pump.  . 

Did  I  sing  ?  she  asked  anxiously. 
"No,"    I    answered.      "Not    anything    to 

speak  of." 
"  Or  play  ? " 
"Well,  the  piano  a  little.      Strum,  strum, 

strum  !     I  play  at  playing." 

That  evidently  pleased  her.  "You  see, 
dear."  she  admitted  frankly,  "  it  would  be  so 
bad  for  Me  if  a  sister  bearing  my  name  went 
in  seriously  for  music. 

"  I   appreciate  your  anxiety,"   I    answered 

"This  did  not   repel  Mariana.     Before  she 
dropped  me  again  at  Auntie's  door  in  the  flats 
off  Victoria  Street,  she  had  satisfied  herself, 
1   think,   as  to    John    Stodmarsh's   place   in 
nature,    and   the   desirability  or  otherwise  of 
cultivating  my  acquaintance.     We  parted  the 
best  of  friends.     She  gave  me  her  cheek  to 
kiss  quite  warmly  this  time,  and  begged  me 
to  come  and  see  her  soon  at  the  Hdtel  Metro- 
pole.     "So   delightful    to    meet    you    again, 
dear!— Home,  Simmons!" 

As  she  drove  off  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  1 
felt  sure  she  was  congratulating  herself  that 


282 


Rosalba 


Rosalba,  after  all,  had  done  nothing  dreadful ; 
and  that  if  she  was  adopted  by  a  distinijuished 
lady  painter,  and  about  to  marry  a  civil  servant 
of  means,  she  must  be  reckoned  in  the  game 
as  an   element   of    strength    rather    than   of 

weakness. 

During  the  next  eighteen  months,  accord- 
ingly   I  saw  much  of  Mariana— that  spoiled 
child' of  fortune.     After  her  first  doubts  were 
dispelled,  she  realised  quickly  enough  that  my 
position  rather  helped  than  hindered  her  m 
English  society.     "  Her  sister,  you  know,  is 
engaged  to  Mr.  Stodmarsh  of  the  Local  Gov- 
ernment Board— a  rising  man,  sure  to  get  into 
Parliament  and  be  a  Cabinet  Minister."     So 
Mariana  made  much  of  me.     Uncle  Giuseppe 
she  kept  judiciously  a  little  in  the  background  ; 
though  even  Uncle  Giuseppe  had  the  natural 
savoirfaire  of  the  Lupari  family,  and  being 
an   Italian  who   spoke  very  broken   English, 
was  less  likely  to  betray  himself  than  if  he  had 
been  born,  like  ourselves,  in  the  parish  of  St. 
Pancras.     I  liked  Uncle  Giuseppe  :  he  was  the 
aood.-Vyxmov.x^^nouveau-riche  who  exults  in  his 
prosperity  with  boyish   pride.     But   Mariana 
took  care  he  should  not  see  too  much  of  me. 
Uncle  Giuseppe's  means  were  ample  for  one, 


The  l.upari 


2R3 


r»g  dreadful ; 

listin^uished 
civil  servant 
in  the  game 

her    than   of 

nths,  accord- 
-that  spoiled 

doubts  were 
3Ugh  that  my 
dered  her  in 
you  know,  is 
e  Local  Gov- 
ire  to  get  into 
linister."     So 
icle  Giuseppe 
:  background ; 
id  the  natural 
lly,  and  being 
iken   English, 
than  if  he  had 
:  parish  of  St. 
)e  :  he  was  the 
10  exults  in  his 

But  Mariana 
3  much  of  me. 
ample  for  one, 


but  would  be  insufficient  for  two.  as  Mariana 
s'lw  things.  That  was  why,  I  now  understood, 
she  had  been  so  anxious  to  say  little  about 
UncU;  Giuseppe's  fortune  when  she  wrote  to 
,ne  from  Milan.  He  died  a  year  later,  and 
left  Mariana  everything.  Mariana  went  into 
respectful  mourning,  provided  herself  with  a 
paid  duenna,  and  continued  to  sing  and  earn 

money  easily.  . 

'•  The  Lupari  "  indeed  became  a  fact  in  Lon- 
don.    She  sang  sweetly  in  her  demure,  mouse- 
like way ;  and  her  old-fashioned  Italian  habit 
of  producing  her  voice  in  a  level  stream,  with- 
out any  of  the  fashionable  French  tremor,  pro- 
duced a  great  effect.    Everybody  spoke  of  her  ; 
bouquets  fell  like  summer  hail  ;  her  bosom,  in 
last  acts,  was  a  blazing  Golconda.     I  was  in- 
troduced to  strangers  now  as  "  the  Lupari  s 
sister,  you  know— the  one  who  is  engaged  to 
Mr.  John  Stodmarsh."     I  took  Mariana  to  see 
John,  and  also  Dudu.     I  was  a  little  afraid   1 
confess,    of    taking    her  to    Dudu  s.      Why 
afraid,  you   will  ask-seeing  that   Dudu  was 
the  merest   acquaintance?     Well,   I  had  half 
an  idea  that  Dudu  might  admire  her.     And 
why  not  ?    Well,  I  was  fond  of  Dudu— and  he 
had  painted  me  so  often-and-a  woman  is  a 


284 


Rosalba 


woman  !     I  did  not  want  that  dainty  Mariana 
to  take  my  place  as  model. 

But  when  I  saw  Dudu  next  after  Marianas 
first  visit,  I  asked  him,  a  little  tremulously, 
what  he  thought  of  her. 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me.  "What  1 
thought  at  the  Monti  Berici,"  he  answered 
after  an  intervd. 

I  wondered  whether  I  remembered  aright. 
"And  thatwcis— ?"  I  inquired. 

"  That  she  is  you— with  the  spice  left  out ; 
you,  without  the  flavour,  the  originality,  the 
individuality,  the  savour ;  you,  with  no  wiltul 
petulance,  no  flashes  of  wickedness ;  in  one 
word,  you,  with  that  attractive  little  devil  of 
yours  omitted." 

"  Her  dimpled  chin  ! "  I  cried. 
•'  Yes  ;  soft  and  round.     Yours  has  charac- 
ter.    Soft,  dimpled  chins,  like  a  wax  doll's,  go 
with  love  of  frivolities.     They  have  no  depth 

in  them."  , 

"  But— she  is  so  very  beautiful— much,  much 

prettier  than— than  I  am,  for  example." 

'  Prettier— y^  vous  Vaccorde-^xn  the  choco- 
late-box sense.  A  nice,  mouse-like  wee  thing, 
with  peachy-downy  cheeks  and  long  trembhng 
eyelashes.     The  very  model  for  a  Christmas 


The  Lupari 


285 


inty  Mariana 

Ler  Mariana's 
tremulously, 

2.     "What  I 
he   answered 

bered  aright. 

,pice  left  out ; 
riginality,  the 
vith  no  wilful 
dness;  in  one 
little  devil  of 


irs  has  charac- 

wax  doll's,  go 

have  no  depth 

I — much,  much 
cample." 
-in  the  choco- 
like  wee  thing, 
long  trembling 
or  a  Christmas 


number.  Lots  of  fellows  could  paint  her— and 
do  her  full  justice.  There  are  faces  that  make 
one  despair  ;  hers  is  not  one  of  them.  She  is 
the  average  brunette,  pushed  to  the  highest 
term  of  which  the  average  brunette  is  capable  ; 
but  one  p^om  of  fire,  one  particle  of  personal- 
ity—nowhere. She  would  make  what  ordinary 
people  call  a  likeness,  not  in  any  deeper  sense 

a  picture." 

"  The  English  care  more  for  likeness  than 

for  beauty,"  I  murmured. 

"  The  English  care  more  for  prettiness  than 
for  soul,"  he  answered.  "  But  a  face  like  hers 
has  no  more  than  prettiness.  Another  face  I 
know  has  so  much  deeper  riddles  in  it— one  has 
never  finished  reading  it.  'T  is  a  face  to  make 
a  man  realise  the  impotence  of  his  art.  Its 
very  perversities  are  endless.  I  could  paint 
it  all  my  life,  and  feel  at  the  end  I  had  not 
reached  the  end  of  it." 

"  Still — her  eyes — 

"  '  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould—' 

Dudu.     Such  eyes ! " 

"  Mariana's  eyes  ?  Mariana's  ?  A  bird- 
stuffer  could  match  them  with  bits  of  col- 
oured glass  and  a  wax  fringe  of  long  lashes. 


286 


Rosalba 


Whereas  there  are  eyes— unfathomable— ob- 
stinate questionings  of  invisible  things.  Man- 
ana  !     Nonsense  ! " 

u  Then— you  will  not  dispossess  me  as  model 
in  her  favour?"  I  asked,  colouring. 

"Dispossess  you?  What  a  question  !  Such 
obvious  prettiness  as  hers !  Dru,  one  crook  of 
your  mocking  little  finger  is  worth  more  than 
many  Marianas.  You  are  a  Giorgione ;  she, 
a  study  by  a  meretricious  Parisian  pamter. 

He  was  nothing  to  me,  of  course— nothing 
to  me,  who  was  to  be  John  Stodmarsh's  wife  ; 
but -it  made  my  heart  leap  to  hear  him 
say  so. 

Seeing  Mariana  brought  the  Italian  home- 
sickness nearer  to  me  than  ever.  Italy  draws  ; 
I  longed  for  Italy.  I  love  it  still ;  I  have  never 
ceased  to  love  it.  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  till 
I  have  explored  every  nook  from  Friuli  to  L,a- 
labria.  Nay,  more,  before  Persephone  claims 
me,  I  trust  that  I  too  shall  have  wandered  in 

the  fields  of  Enna. 

Aunt  Emilys  villa,  where  I  write  these  lines, 
stands  with  its  pink-washed  walls  on  the  ter- 
raced slope  of  the  Monti  Berici.  A  close 
screen  of  tapering  black  cypresses  cuts  it  ott 


% 


The  Lupari 


287 


homable — ob- 
hings.     Mari- 

;s  me  as  model 

lestion!  Such 
,  one  crook  of 
rth  more  than 
iorgione ;  she, 
an  painter." 
lurse — nothing 
dmarsh's  wife  ; 
to  hear  him 


IiaUan  home- 
•.  Italy  draws ; 
I ;  I  have  never 
be  satisfied  till 
m  Friuli  to  Ca- 
sephone  claims 
ve  wandered  in 

vrite  these  lines, 
rails  on  the  ter- 
Jerici.  A  close 
esses  cuts  it  off 


from   the    olive-yard.      Cicalas    buzz    there. 
From  the  round-arched  loggia  with  its  Cor- 
inthian pillars— antiques,  I    fancy— you   look 
down  past  the  gnarled  mulberry-tree  on  the 
burnt-up  grass-plot  to  the  mouldering  balus- 
trade :  and  over  the  balustrade  you  may  catch 
blue  glimpses  of  the  shining  plain,  or  m  the 
distance  the  Alps,  just  seen  through  the  shim- 
mering haze  of  Lombardy.   Below,  campaniles 
of  neighbouring  villages  :  Romanesque  campa- 
niles, with  twin  round-topped  windows  set  high 
on  their  towers.    Everything  mossy  and  lichen- 
stained  and  broken-nosed,  from  the  armless 
Apollo  on  the  pedestal  by  the  parape'     3  the 
nymphs  that  pour  driblets  of  water,  by  green, 
oozy  tags,  from  their  cracked  urn  in  the  grotto 
by  the  arbutus.     And  that  is  Italy  ! 

There,  in  Aunt  Emily's  villa,  whither  he 
took  me  at  last—  But  my  inveterate  habit 
of  getting  in  front  of  my  story  has  quite  run 
away  with  me. 


1 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   BRINK    OF   THE    I'RECirlCE 

MARIANA,  in  her  r6le  of  elder  sister, 
was  able  to  settle  the  date  of  my 
birthday,  which  I  had  either  forgotten  or  never 
known      As  its  twenty-first  anniversary  drew 
Sy  near,  bringing  with  it  the  penalty  and 
forfeit  of  my  bond,  1  became  more  and  more 
aware  of  the  hateful  nature  of  my  compac 
with  John  Stodmarsh.     Mariana,  of  whom  I 
saw  much  now,  could  not  ""d<=^='=«:f  "^  "^"- 
spoken  reluctance  to  marry  h,m :-   Such  an 
excellent  match-a  county  family,  too-he  w.11 
be  knighted  in  time,  they  say,  dear,  at  the 
very  least  knighted;   and  then  you  w,ll  be 
Lady  Stodmarsh  ;  perhaps,  indeed,  he  may  be 
™ade  a  peer  before  he  's  finished.     So  sweet, 
Tpeerage !     But  even  a  knighthood  .s  always 
o'methfng.     It  would  be  a  splendW  thmg  or 
Me  it  I  could  talk  of  'my  sister  Lady  Stod- 

288 


:iricE 

f  elder  sister, 
:  date  of   my 
otten  or  never 
liversary  drew 
le  penalty  and 
lore  and  more 
f  my  compact 
la,  of  whom  I 
;rstand  my  un- 
n:— "Such  an 
ly,  too — he  will 
,  dear;  at  the 
n  you  will  be 
eed,  he  may  be 
led.     So  sweet, 
thood  is  always 
lendid  thing  for 
iter  Lady  Stod- 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice        289 

marsh.'"  Mariana,  turning  her  green-beryl 
eyes  upon  me  in  mild  amaze,  seemed  to  think 
it  almost  unnatural  on  my  part  that  I  should 
wish  to  deprive  her  of  this  innocent  enjoy- 
ment. She  had  hopes  of  a  certain  courtesy 
Lord  Reggy  for  herself,  and  considered  that 
even  a  knightly  title  for  her  sister  might  go 
some  way  on  the  road  towards  securing  him. 
She  meant  to  exploit  me. 

She  exploited  most  people.  She  had  indeed 
a  curious  variant  on  the  Midas  gift.  Whatever 
gold  chanced  to  pass  her  way,  Mariana's  little 
fist  closed  over  it  naturally. 

As  to  Dudu,  of  course  I  spoke  as  little  as 
possible  to  him  about  the  matter.  To  speak 
of  it  would  have  been  to  court  defeat.  We 
would  both  have  betrayed  ourselves  —  and 
John.  So  I  kept  dead  silence.  But  we  looked 
the  more.  And  our  looks  told  us  everything. 
Mine,  reluctance  ;  his,  infinite  pity. 

Yet  I  flew  right  into  it,  none  the  less.  A 
sense  of  honour,  of  my  duty  to  John,  made  me 
forget  my  still  clearer  duty  to  myself  as  a  wo- 
man. I  admit  I  was  wrong.  I  felt  it  in  the 
sequel.  But  honour  misled  me  ;  and  I  had  no 
one  to  guide  me. 

Some  weeks  before  the  date  arranged  for 

»9 


2  90 


Rosalba 


our  wedding,  John  spoke  to  me  of  his  pans. 
It  was  a  tawny  autumn  day,  at  Patchingham. 
We  had  climbed  the  sandstone  ridge  where 
the   heather  was   now    brown   and    the  wet 
bracken  shone  hke  burnished   copper      Ram 
had  fallen  overnight,  but  the  day  was  hot.     A 
curdy  white  mist  of  winged  ^^eds  rose  and 
floated  from  the  basking  spikes  of  wiUow-herK 
All  was  dim  and  autumnal.     It  seemed  to  me 
a  fitting  day  to  discuss  that  grey  event,  my 

'""^'wf  will  have  to  get  a  dispensation, 
of  course,"  I  put  in,  when  John  paused  m 
his  remarks.  "Without  a  dispensation,  no 
Catholic    can    marry  a    person    outside    the 

Church."  ,,       1     .^       „^ 

John  stared  amazement.     "  You  don  t  mean 
to  say,"  he  exclaimed,  "  after  all  the  books  I 
have  lent  you  to  read,  you  still  beheye  that-- 
I  think  he  was  just  going  to  say     that  non- 
sense," but  he  checked  himself  in  time,  and 
substituted  for  it  the  slightly  less  offensive 
phrase,  "  that  mass  of  dogmas  ? 
^  I  wks  firm,  but  quiet.     "  What  I  believe, 
Tohn,"  1  answered, '•  is  a  matter  for  myself ; 
what  I  wish  to  do  is  a  matter  for  discussion 
between  us.     And  I  may  as  well  confess  at 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice        291 


of  his  plans. 
Patchingham. 

ridge,  where 
and  the  wet 
:opper.  Rain 
\f  was  hot.  A 
;eds  rose  and 
jf  willow-herb, 
seemed  to  me 
rey  event,  my 

dispensation, 
)hn  paused  in 
spensation,  no 
1    outside    the 

{o\x  don't  mean 
all  the  books  I 
believe  that — " 
say  *'  that  non- 
:lf  in  time,  and 
\f  less  offensive 

?" 

AThat  I  believe, 

tter  for  myself; 

;r  for  discussion 

well  confess  at 


once  that  I  should  not  be  happy  in  marrying 
you  unless  I  had  a  dispensation."  ^ 

"  But  you  never  said  you  were  a  Catholic, 
he  objected  in  his  positive  way.     (I  am  not 
positive  on  the  point,  but  I  think  John  was  a 

Positivist.) 

"  I  do  not  say  so  now,"  1  answered.  "  It  is 
a  large  proposition.  Besides,  I  did  not  want 
to  differ  from  you.  One  can  believe  a  thing 
without  protesting  too  much.  One  can  dissent 
without  dissidence." 

He  eyed  me  suspiciously,  as  though  he  fan- 
cied I  was  making  game  of  him.  "Still,  you 
have  never  confessed,"  he  said  again. 

"What  need  for  confession?  Our  life  at 
Miss  Westmacott's— so  painfully  blameless  ! " 
His  face  cloud  ..  "Very  well,"  he  said 
slowly ;  "if  you  really  feel  it  necessary,  Ro- 
salba,  to  get  a  dispensation—.  Though  I 
should  have  thought,  after  all  I  have  taught 
you—.  And  Miss  Duddleswell,  too,  of  whom 
you  have  seen  so  much,  is  a  lady  of  such 
sterling  logical  qualities ! " 

"  Let  us  be  reasonable,  John,"  I  broke  m, 
plucking  the  bells  one  by  one  from  a  spray 
of  brown  heather.  "  You  are  not  surprised 
that  most  Englishwomen  desire  to  be  married 


292  Rosalba 

in  church  instead  of  at  a  registry-office— now 
don't  quote  Mill  at  me  !— rationally  or  irration- 
ally it  gives  them  a  greater  and  securer  sense 
of  hum^an  and  divine  sanction.     You  are  stil 
less  surprised  that  they  desire  to  be  married 
rather    than    to   dispense   with    x   ceremony 
altogether  ;  I  fancy  you  would  oe  shocked  if 
like   H^loise,    they   felt  otherwise.      Well,   J 
have  been  brought  up  in  a  particular  faith, 
however   foolish,   and   it  gives   me   just  that 
sense  of  security  and  sanction  if  the  priests 
of  my  faith  bless  my   union.     Without   it,  1 
should  feel   uncomfortable— and  you  do  not 
wish  to  make  me  feel  uncomfortable  in  the 
most  important  step  of  my  life,  do  you  ?" 

"No,   certainly   not;    but   still— you   have 
read  and  discussed  with  me  so  many  sceptical 
books— Comte,  Firsi  Principles,   The  Origin 
of  species.  Supernatural  Religion— \\i^\.  it  never 
even  occurred  to  me  you  were  still  a  Catho he. 
I  intrenched  myself  behind  my  individuality. 
"John,"  I  said  firmly,  "there  is  one  subject 
1  decline  to  enter  into  with  anybody,  and  that 
is  my  own  inner  and  personal  religious  senti- 
ments.    1  prefer  to  discuss  mundane  matters. 
Questions  of  fact,  questions  of  science,  ques- 
tions of   the  historical  basis   of   Christianity, 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice        293 


y-office — now 
lly  or  irration- 
securer  sense 

You  are  still 
to  be  married 

X  ceremony 
oe  shocked  if, 
ise.  Well,  / 
irticular  faith, 

me  just  that 

if  the  priests 
Without   it,  I 
d  you  do  not 
ortable  in  the 
do  you  ?  " 
till — you   have 
many  sceptical 
es,   The  Origin 
yi — that  it  never 
itill  a  Catholic." 
ly  individuality. 

is  one  subject 
^body,  and  that 

religious  senti- 
mdane  matters, 
if  science,  ques- 
of   Christianity, 


I  will  talk  over  with  you  ;  but  not  my  feelings. 
Those  I  hold  sacred.  Still,  since  you  seem 
to  think  some  discrepancy  exists  between  my 
intellectual  att^'ude  and  what  I  now  say,  I 
should  like  to  make  you  understand  that  what 
attaches  me  to  the  Church  is  just  its  cath- 
olicity." 

John's  thin  lips   curled.     "Catholicity   and 
Catholicism    are    very    different    things,"    he 

answered. 

"  Very  different  things,"  I  admitted.  "  Some 
would  say  opposite.     But  that  only  shows  the 
wisdom  of  the  Church— she  has  room  in  her 
bosom  for  both  those  extremes.     Some  love 
her  for  her  Catholicism  ;  some  for  her  catho- 
licity.    I  am  of  the  last.     I  love  her  because 
she  can  shelter  a  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  and  a 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi  ;  because  she  can  give 
a  niche  to  the  narrowest  sectary  and  to  the 
widest  humanitarian  ;  because   she   embraces 
and  allows  for  all  human  types ;  because  she 
finds  room  even  for  me,  who  would  fraternise 
just  as  easily  with  a  sincere  Mohammedan  or 
a  sincere  Buddhist  as  with  a  Dominican  or  an 

Aiiglican." 

I  am  not,  I  hope,  a  bigot.     I  cannot  swallow 
a  religion  whole,  as  if  it  were  a  pill.    All  those 


2()4  Rosalba 

whom  1  have  loved  and  trusted  most  In  life 
have  belonged  to  the  alien  faith    and  I  have 
never  questioned  the  rightness  of  their  belief. 
My   own  attachment   to   the  Church   of  my 
fathers  is  rather  a  sentiment  for  the  forms  and 
words  one  learnt  in  childhood  than  any  real 
sympathy  with  the  rigid  dogmas  of  the  Vati- 
can     1  have  not  fathomed  the  Infinite,  hke 
Miss  Westmacott ;  nor  am  I  even  sure  that 
red-robed  cardinals  have  done  so.    Latm  comes 
more  easily  to  my  lips  in  prayer  than  Eng- 
lish-that is  all.  perhaps.     But  John  is  lackmg 
in  emotional  subtlety;  and  his  supercd.ous  air 
of  intellectual  superiority  turned   me  for    he 
moment  into  a  papal  apologist      1  defended 
Rome— because    John   despised   it.      1  hat   is 
the  way  of  a  woman. 

lohn  shufifled  uncomfortably.  "Well  if 
you  wish  it."  he  said  at  last,  'j  I  will  make 
inquiries  about  this-this  so-called  dispensa- 
tion :  though  I  confess,  if  you  make  me  go 
through  a  ceremony  at  a  Catholic  church.  I 
shall  feel  a  trifle  ridiculous." 

..  Did  you  think  of   getting  married  at  an 
English  church  or  a  registry  office  ?  "    I  asked. 
"  At  an  English  church,  I  suppose. 
-Then,  John,  don't  you  think  your  objec 


,  most  in  life 
,  and  I  have 
f  their  belief, 
[lurch   of  my 
;he  forms  and 
:han  any  real 
s  of  the  Vati- 
Infinite,  like 
ven  sure  that 
.   Latin  comes 
er  than   Eng- 
ohn  is  lacking 
iupercilious  air 
;d   me  for  the 
:.     1   defended 
i   it.     That   is 

y.  "Well,  if 
«•  I  will  make 
ailed  dispensa- 
u  make  me  go 
holic  church,  I 

;  married  at  an 

^ce  ?  "    I  asked. 

ippose." 

link  your  objec- 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice        295 

tion  just  a  wee  bit  sectarian  ?     Does  it  not 
lack  catholicity?" 

The  question  took  him  aback.     He  stared 
at  me  in  astonishment.     The  fact  is,  dear  John 
was  in  favour  of  the  fullest  inquiry  everywhere 
-provided  always  it  led   you  in  the  end  to 
the  very  same  point  he  himself  had  arrived  at. 
"Well,  no,"  he  said,  wriggling  uneasily  on 
his  seat  among  the  heather,  and  washmg  his 
hands  in  nervous  pantomime.     "In  Englan  >. 
you  see,  the  established  church  is  the  estab- 
lished church  ;  it  has  position  and— er— well, 
offtcial  sanction.    I  am  an  officer  of  the  Govern- 
ment      For  me  to  be  married  at  St.  George  s, 
Hanover   Square,  is  analogous  to   the   coro- 
nation  taking  place   at  Westminster   Abbey. 
But  to  choose  for  the  ceremony  a  Catholic 
church-well,  it  is  bowing  needlessly  in  the 

Temple  of  Rimmon."  

"  I  see,"  I  said,  rising.  "  You  will  bow  in  a 
Temple  of  Rimmon  authorised  by  your  Gov- 
ernment, but  not  in  one  which  is  merely  chosen 
by  the  woman  you  propose  to  marry  ?     _    , 

He  gave  way,  grudgingly.  "  Oh,  if  it  is  a 
matter  of  conscience,"  he  said,  "however 
much  I  may  regret  that  you  have  not  out- 
grown those  early  superstitions— as  I  hoped 


296 


Rosalba 


you  had  done-of  course  you  shall  he  mar- 
riecl  in  a  church  of  your  own  choos.n^^  On 
ducslions  of  etiquctte-what  dress  you  sha 
wear  or  what  priest  shall  marry  yov.-you  will 
tind  me  ^l.vays  a  most  tolerant  person.  Miss 
C.wendoline  Duddleswell  is  an  excellent  jud«e 
of  temperament,  and  she  tells  me  tolerance  .s 
one  of  my  marked  characteristics. 

That  evening  I  related  the  whole  conversa- 
tion  to  Auntie.  She  looked  at  me  very  gravely. 
"  Rosalba,  dear."  she  murmured,  seizing  my 
hands  in  hers.  "  he  does  not  understand  you  ; 
he  will  never  understand  you  !    1  begin  to  have 

doubts  about " 

"  About  what,  dear  ? "  ,      .      1  • 

"  About  my  own  wisdom  in  ever  letting  him 

take  you  ! 

"You  need  not,"  I  answered.    «;  It  is  too 

late      Spilt  milk.     An  oath  !  an  oath  I    I  have 

an  oath  in  heaven!     And  besides,  I  can  see 

now  it  was  quite  inevitable." 

Auntie  smoothed  my  wandering  hair  with  her 
hand-'t  is  a  peculiarity  of  that  anarchic  hair  of 
mine  that  it  will  never  keep  in  place-and  re- 
peated slowly,  "  I  begin  to  have  doubts-grave 
doubts.     Yet  1  did  it  for  the  best,  dear. 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice 


297 


ihall  be  mar- 
loosin^.  On 
ess  you  shall 
rou— you  will 
person.  Miss 
xcellcnt  jucl^n; 
le  tolerance  is 
s. 

hole  conversa- 
e  very  ^^ravely. 
cl,  seizing  my 
derstand  you  ; 
1  begin  to  have 


:ver  letting  him 

-d.  "  It  is  too 
n  oath !  I  have 
sides,  I  can  see 

ing  hair  with  her 
anarchic  hair  of 
n  place— and  re- 
e  doubts— grave 
)est,  dear." 


I  bent  my  head.    M  know  you  dal.  darhng 
I   struggled  hard    against   my  tears.         You 
thought  you  were  giving  mc  sud.  a  chance  u. 
life.     And  then,  too,  I  consented. 

"  Hut  you  were  too  young  to  understand- 
too  yovmg  to  give  consent.    1  ought  to  have  seen 
he  was  quite  the  wrong  p.rson  for  you.     A 
high-spirited girl-a  man  like  John  Stodmarsh  ! 
But  when  he  spoke  to  me  of  it.  I  thought  on  y 
of  the  excellent  position  it  -offered.     I  said  to 
myself,   '  Shall  1  be  justified  in  keepmg  her 
here  as  my  model-this  beautiful,  clever  aspir- 
ng  child-when  a  man  like  John  Stodmarsh 
would  make  her  his  wife?'     The  very  unself- 
ishness with  which  1  tried  to  put  my  own  con- 
venience  out  of  the  question  misled  me. 

..Dontspeakofit,dear!"Icried.  "  If  you 
do,  I  shall  break  down.  I-I  can  do  it,  but  1 
can't  bear  to  discuss  it." 

..  We  mns^  discuss  it,"  Auntie  cried.       Wc 
,nusi  discuss  it  before  it  is  too  late.    I  can  t  e 
you  marry  him  if  you  do  not  love  him.     Th^ 
is  the  one  wicked  thing  a  good  woman  can  do 
-to  marry  without  love.     Rosalba,  I  will  not 

allow  you  to  do  it.' 

•■  It  is  a  geographical  question,"     answered 
trying  not  to  look  too  grave.     "  In  England 


298 


Rosalba 


you  are  expected  to  marry  a  man  because 
you  love  him;  in  Italy  you  are  expected  to 
love  a  man  because  you  have  married  him. 
John  is  an  excellent  catch.  His  family 
came  over,  like  the  Slys,  with  Richard  the 
Conqueror." 

"  You  shall  not  jest  about  it,  dear.  This  is 
far  too  serious.  I  never  suspected  till  now 
how  deep  it  went.  But  I  see  it  in  your  eyes. 
Rosalba — do  you  hate  him  ?" 

"  Hate  him  ?  Dear  Auntie,  oh  no !  I  like 
him  ;  I  respect  him  ;  I  am  fond  of  him  in  a 
way  ;  I  am  very  grateful  to  him— but— re- 
spect is  a  bloodless  substitute  for  love  ;  and  I 
do  not  love  him." 

"  Then  you  must  not  marry  him  !  " 
"  I  must.  There  is  no  help  for  it.  I  owe 
him  so  much  that  I  cannot  refuse  him.  'T  is  a 
question  of  common  honesty  and  the  open 
market.  I  have  become  a  commodity.  I 
promised  him ;  he  has  paid  his  sequins  down 
for  me  ;  I  must  keep  my  promise." 

"No,  no ;  it  was  not  you  who  promised  ;  it 
was  a  little  Italian  girl,  too  young  to  under- 
stand.    I  will  not  let  him  marry  you." 

I  turned  the  m.atter  over  bitterly  in  my 
mind.     "Auntie,"  I  said  at  last,  "  there  is  no 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice 


299 


I  man  because 
re  expected  to 
e  married  him. 
His  family 
h    Richard   the 

,  dear.  This  is 
pected  till  now 
it  in  your  eyes. 

,  oh  no !     I  like 

nd  of  him  in  a 

him — but — re- 

for  love  ;  and  I 

him  ! " 

p  for  it.     I  owe 

use  him.    T  is  a 

'  and   the   open 

commodity.      I 

is  sequins  down 

lise." 

^ho  promised ;  it 

y^oung  to  under- 

ry  you." 

•  bitterly  in   my 

1st,  "  there  is  no 


going  back  now.    The  whole  t^ng  has  been^a 
fnisuke-my  education  and  all  of . t     He  saw 
me  and  was  taken  with  me:  why  ?  because  1 
1;  a  wild  wayward  Italian  child  of  the  road, 
M  of  qufps  an'd  cranksand  strange  precoc>ous 
^fulnesses.     Because  I  was  other  than  h.m- 
self      Because  I  was  a  romantic  httle  southern 
ragamuffin,  half  gipsy,  half  poetess,  flashmg 
out  when  he  touched  me.     And  what  d,d  he 
ttUhtway  do  with  me  ?    Send  me  to  a  st.ff- 
an'trlhed  English  school,  where  they  taught 
me  geography  and  the  use  of  the  globes  and 
Iffed  ?ne  wilh  algebra,  and  did  the.r  level  bes 
to  drill  out  of  me  the  very  W'Wnessesa"d  way 
wardnesses  and  quips  and  "anks  wh.ch  made 
him  first  take  afancy  to  me.    John  and  Johns 
deities  tried  to  mould  me  into  the.r  own  like- 
ness   They  tight-laced  my  soul.    Ihadwmgs 
"nd  they  clipped  them.     I  had  dreams,  and 
hey  woke  me  from  them.     Miss  Westmacott 
'toLdme   down.'      I  did  not  need   tomng 
down;  1  needed  development  along  my  own 
Unes.     If  I  remain  in  any  way  hke  what  I  was 
before  John  Stodmarsh  took  me  m  hand,  t  .s 
Tecausi  of  three  things,  and  three  th.ngs  alone 
—yourself— the  bicycle-and— - 
"And  what?"    For  I  checked  myself. 


300 


Rosalba 


" It  is  not  what"  I  answered,  flushing  crim- 
son. 

Auntie  bent  forward  and  clasped  her  hands. 
"  O  Rosalba  !— not  Arthur  Wingham  ?  " 

"You  have  said  it,"  I  answered,  dropping 
my  eyelids.     Then  we  were  both  silent. 

When  we  spoke  again,  Auntie  held  my  hand 
hard.  "  I  might  have  guessed  it!"  she  cried. 
"  I  might  have  guessed  it !  With  your  romantic 
nature,  how  could  I  ever  have  let  John  Stod- 
marsh  have  his  way  ?  I  ought  to  have  known 
that  so  proud  and  so  sensitive  a  girl — .  But 
I  thought  it  such  a  good  match— and  every- 
body said,  what  splendid  luck  for  you  ! " 

"  Sir  Hugh  is  rich,"  I  replied  obliquely. 
"  Sir  Hugh  is  the  head  of  an  old  county  fam- 
ily. Sir  Hugh  is  a  Member  of  Parliament  and 
a  very  great  gentleman.  And  yet — tbere  are 
women  whom  he  longs  to  ask,  and  who  could 
not  dream  of  marrying  him." 

"  Rosalba,  don't  turn  the  barb  in  the  flesh. 
I  am  suffering  for  it  already.  It  is  my  fault 
— mine.     I  led  you  into  it." 

I  kissed  her  hand.  "No,  no ;  it  had  to 
come,  and  it  came." 

"  Why,  my  child,  that  is  fatalism  ! " 


flushing  crim- 
ped her  hands, 
igham  ?  " 
ered,  dropping 
:h  silent. 

2  held  my  hand 

it ! "  she  cried. 

li  your  romantic 

let  John  Stod- 

to  have  known 

;  a  girl — .     But 

ch — and  every- 

br  you ! " 

)lied  obliquely. 

Did  county  fam- 

Parliament  and 

yet — tl^ere  are 

and  who  could 

,rb  in  the  flesh. 
It  is  my  fault 

no ;  it  had  to 

ilism ! " 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice        301 

"  Yes,  dearie ;  and  I  am  a  fatalist.  But  I 
know  that  Fate's  other  name  is  Circumstance. 
She  creeps  upon  you  unawares.  An  accident 
here,  a  coincidence  there,  and— pa-ta-ta— be- 
fore you  know,  her  meshes  are  about  you  ;  she 
holds  you  bound  hand  and  foot  in  her  toils  for 

"  But,  my  darling,  if  you  love  Arthur  Wing- 
ham,  th'at  settles  the  question.  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  marry  one  man  when  you  love  another. 
It  is  the  unforgivable  sin.  I— I  will  speak 
to  John  abou'  It." 

"  Auntie,"   I  cried,  rising  and  fronting  her, 
"  if  you   do,  I  will  deny  it  to  your  face !     I 
mean  to  marry  John.     I    must  marry  John. 
John  is  a  proud  man— he  thinks  more  of  him- 
self tiian  of  anyone  or  anything  else  on  earth 
—his  dignity  and  hs  importance.     It  would 
be  a  shock  to  his  amour  propre  to  learn  that 
the  girl  he  had  deigned  to  select  for  himself 
and  to  educate  as  a  lady  in  spite  of  her  origin 
the  girl  he  designed  for  the  singular  honour  of 
being  His  Wife,  preferred,  positively  preferred, 
an  obscure  artist.     J  ohn  has  been  very  kind  to 
me      I  will  not  put  this  open  slight  upon  him. 
It  would  be  black  ingratitude.     His  money  is 
nothing  to   me.     Not   for  the  wealth  of  the 


302 


Rosalba 


Incas  would  I  sell  myself  to  any  man.  But 
obligation,  honour,  my  plighted  word  !  What- 
ever comes,  I  will  keep  my  compact.  That  is 
plain  justice." 

"  Rosalba,  Rosalba,  don't  say  you  will  marry 

bim  ! " 

"  Yes,  Auntie,  I  will  marry  him.     Whatever 

you  say' or  do,  I  am  resolved  to  marry  him." 

Next  morning,  as  I  sat  at  my  little  creeper- 
covered  window  in  Auntie's  cottage  (drying 
my  hair,  wh=-h  with  me  is  a  long  operation),  I 
overheard  Sir  Hugh  Tachbrook  and  Auntie, 
on  the  verandah  below,  discussing  me.  I  hate 
being  discussed ;  but  I  could  not  help  hearing 

them. 

"  So  she  is  going  to  marry  that  man  btod- 
marsh,  at  last,  after  all?"  Sir  Hugh  blurted 
out  in  his  stentorian  voice  (Sir  Hugh  has  no 
idea  of  talking  private  matters  over  quietly). 
"  Well,  well,  I  'm  sorry  for  it." 

"  Why  so  ? "  Auntie  asked  in  a  much  lower 

tone.  , , 

"  Because  she  '11  do  just  what  you  d  expect 
from  one  of  her  kind— marry  Stodmarsh— and 
then,  within  six  months,  bolt  with  that  painter- 
fellow." 


The  Brink  of  the  Precipice 


303 


any  man.  But 
Iword!  What- 
upact.     That  is 

y  you  will  marry 

lim.     Whatever 
o  marry  him." 

ny  little  creeper- 
cottage  (drying 
»ng  operation),  I 
lok  and  Auntie, 
sing  me.  I  hate 
not  help  hearing 

that  man  Stod- 
ir  Hugh  blurted 
Sir  Hugh  has  no 
ers  over  quietly). 

in  a  much  lower 

rhat  you  'd  expect 
Stodmarsh — and 
with  that  painter- 


At  the  time,  his  words  flushed  me  with  in- 
dignation and  injured  pride.  Yet  which  of  us 
knows,  till  temptation  comes,  whither  our 
passionate  hearts  may  hurry  us  ? 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MORE   THUNDERBOLTS 

JOHN  objected  to  banns;  we  were  to  be 
married  by  licence. 
He    was    always   charming   about   money- 
matters     When  it  came  to  my  trousseau,  he 
handed  me  a  blank  cheque.     "  Ask  Linda  and 
your  sister  to  fill  it  up  mentally  for  whatever 
sum  they  think  suitable  to  a  lady  in  your  posi- 
tion—the  position  of  my  future  wife— and  then 
add  one-third  to  the  figure  they  decide  be- 
tween them,"  he  said.     I  crumpled  it  in  my 
pocket,  with  a  burning  sense  of  shame.     But 
1  had  not  the  heart  to  put  John  to  the  open 
disgrace  of  refusing  him.     And  if  I  took  him 
at  all,  I   must  take  him  with  all  the  conse- 
quences. 

Mariana  was  in  her  element  choosing  my 
trousseau.  A  rampant  daughter  of  success, 
she  loved  shopping  even  vicariously ;  she  knew 

304 


J 


More  Thunderbolts 


305 


LTS 

we  were  to  be 

about   money- 
ny  trousseau,  he 
'  Ask  Linda  and 
illy  for  whatever 
ady  in  your  posi- 
B  wife — and  then 
they  decide  be- 
umpled  it  in  my 
of  shame.     But 
[ohn  to  the  open 
ind  if  I  took  him 
:h  all  the  conse- 

ent  choosing  my 
^hter  of  success, 
riously ;  she  knew 


the  shops,  and  the  shops  knew  her.     Intro- 
duced by  her,  I  went  everywhere.     As   she 
flitted  from  counter  to  counter  with  her  frills 
and  gorgets,  she  reminded  me  of  a  humming- 
bird.    She  darted  into  piles  of  embroidered 
under-linen,  and  flung  herself  on  the  details  of 
my  going-away  dress  with  a  frivolous  fervour 
which  I  confess  even  the  woman  within  me 
failed  to  make  me  emulate.     Would  you  have 
lawn  or  soft  wool  ?  is  cambric  being  worn  ?  how 
would  that  dainty  Honiton  lace  suit  with  these 
sweet  little  nighty-gowns  ?     It  made  my  heart 
sink.     I  realised  the  slavery  into  which  I  was 

selling  myself. 

The  awesomeness  of  marriage  chilled  my 
soul ;  its  terrifying  irrevocability  !  To  spend 
a  lifetime  with  John— what  a  foolhardy  ex- 
periment ! 

One  morning  in  those  days,  towards  the 
end  of  the  trousseau  ordeal,  I  called  round  at 
Mariana's  early.  She  had  promised  to  go  out 
with  me  to  attend  to  the  boot-and-shoe  depart- 
ment. "  Chaussure  is  so  important,  you  know  ! 
—with  the  possible— just  possible— exception 
of  coiffure,  nothing  more  important!"  But 
when  I  reached  her  rooms,  I  found  her  suffer- 
ing from  an  obvious  fit  of  annoyance.    "  That 


3o6 


Rosalba 


is  the  worst  of  being  known,  Rosalba !     she 
moaned  to  me  softly,  with  a  chilly  httle  shiver 
of  her  shoulders  in  their  delicate,  fluffy  morn- 
ing wrapper-for  Mariana  \s,frileusc      Fancy 
that,  now  ;  a  telegram  addressed  s.mply '  S.gno- 
rina  Lupari,  Londres/  and  it  is  delivered  to  me 
straight!     Handed  in  at   Saint-Andre,    10.20 
A.M.  ;  sent  out  from  Curzon  Street  at  11.30.    ^^ 
Comes  direct  to  my  door.    I  call  it  abominable^ 
..What  is  it  about?"    I   ventured  to  ask, 
perceiving    no    special    cause    for   Marianas 

^""ohTjr,  of  course!"  Mariana  answered, 
shudde'ring  again.  "  She  dogs  us  through  life 
But  it  won't  be  long  now.     If  you  like  you 

can  read  it."  n  ^^ 

I  took  it  up  and  read :  "  Am  dying.     Come 
out  at  once  to  see  me.     Mother." 

My   face  burned  hot.      *'  O   Mariana !     I 
cried.  "  are  you  going  to  her  ?  " 

"Going  to  her?  What  an  idea  !  Che  saoc- 
chezza  !  Is  it  likely  \  should  go  to  her  ?  Have 
I  not  spent  all  these  years  in  trying  to  avoid 
her?  have  1  not  sedulously  kept  my  address 
quiet  from  her?  have  I  not  paid  her  well 
never  to  come  near  Paris  or  London? 
' '  Paid  her,  Mariana  ?  " 


More  Thunderbolts 


307 


Rosalba ! "  she 
lly  little  shiver 
te,  fluffy  morn- 
ileuse.  "Fancy 
I  simply  •  Signo- 
delivered  to  me 
It- Andre,    10.20 
reet  at  11.30. 
.  it  abominable." 
mtured  to  ask, 
for   Mariana's 

riana  answered, 
1  us  through  life. 
If  you  like  you 

n  dying.     Come 

I) 

lER. 

O    Mariana!"  I 

idea !  Che  scioc- 
rotoher?  Have 
n  trying  to  avoid 
kept  my  address 
)t  paid  her  well 
London?" 


"Why,  certainly— paid  her.      Don't  hang 
your  jaw  like  that,  stupid  !     It  was  well  worth 

it,  was  it  not  ? "  r        v. 

.•But— John  was  paying  her  too,  for  the 
very  same  thing.     She  has  taken  money  from 

both  of  you  ! " 

She  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders  with  an 
impatient  air.  "  Very  likely.  I  should  have 
guessed  it.  La  Mamma  was  quite  capable  of 
«.  »» 

"  And  Saint-Andrd.  It  said  on  the  placards 
as  I  came  along,  '  Explosion  at  Saint-Andr^, 
in  Burgundy.'  Could  that  have  anything  to 
do  with   it?"      And   I    seized   the    morning 

paper. 

'•No  doubt,"  Mariana  answered  with  a 
moody-listless  air.  "  Last  time  I  heard  of  her, 
she  was    hand    and    glove   with   an    Italian 

anarchist." 

"Here  it  is!"  I  cried,  running  my  eyes 
down  the  column  of  latest  telegrams.  '  Ex- 
plosion at  Saint-Andr^ !  Attempt  to  blow  up 
the  French  President!'  Why,  Mariana— it 
mentions  her.  '  Among  the  injured  is  an  old 
woman  of  the  name  of  Lupari,  said  to  be  an 
accomplice ;  she  asserts  that  she  is  the  mother 
of  the  well-known  opera-singer.     She  is,  how- 


%- 
v 


3o8 


Rosalba 


ever,  apparently  an  I rlshwoman.   Her  condition 
is  despairetl  of.' " 

"I  shall  deny  it  flatly!"  Mariana  cried, 
starting  up  and  growing  very  red.  "  To  drag 
Me  into  this  matter  !  Infamous  !  Infamous  ! 
I  shall  declare  that  the  woman  has  nothing  at 
all  to  do  with  me." 

"  Then  you  will  not  go  to  her  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Rosalba  !  even  for  you,  what  a 
question  !  No,  I  will  not  go  to  her.  To  go 
would  be  simply  to  ruin  everything.  It  would 
be  to  admit  the  relationship,  and  wash  our 
soiled  linen — our  too  painfully  soiled  linen — 
before  the  eyes  of  Europe.  Let  us  confine 
our  skeleton  to  its  appropriate  cupboard.  I 
am  not  quixotic.  I  will  pay  to  have  her  buried 
—  one  can  do  thai  quietly.  But  go  to  see 
her — no,  no  !     'T  would  be  absolute  suicide." 

"  /  shall  go,"  I  said  simply.  "  I  see  no  way 
out  of  it."  I  shrank  from  it  inexpressibly  ; 
but  I  could  not  shirk  it. 

Mariana  tapped  her  pretty  little  foot  once 
or  twice  on  the  carpet.  "  If  you  go,  Rosalba," 
she  said  after  a  minute's  pause,  "  I  shall  never 
speak  to  you  again."  She  clearly  regarded 
that  as  a  most  tremendous  threat ;  for  dear 
Mariana  has  always  had  an  excellent  opinion 


Her  condition 

Mariana  cried, 
:d.  "  To  dni^ 
IS !  Infamous  ! 
has  nothing  at 

r?" 

)r  you,  what  a 
to  her.  To  go 
ling.     It  would 

and  wash  our 
'  soiled  linen — 
Let  us  confine 
t  cupboard.  I 
have  her  buried 
But  go  to  see 
^lute  suicide." 

"  I  see  no  way 
inexpressibly  ; 

little  foot  once 
lu  go,  Rosalba," 
,  "  I  shall  never 
iearly  regarded 
hreat ;  for  dear 
jccellent  opinion 


More  Thunderbolts 


309 


of  her  own  importance.  "  Why  should  you 
wish  to  ruin  My  prospects — and  your  own — 
for  the  sake  of  that — that  wretched  creature  ?" 

"  I  shall  go,"  I  answered,  "  even  at  the  risk 
of  incjirring  your  perpetual  silence,  Mariana." 
A  wave  of  remorse  swept  through  me.  "  I 
let  my  dear  father  die,"  I  went  on,  "  without 
being  by  his  side  to  kiss  him  farewell.  I  was 
a  child  then,  and  I  did  not  realise.  But  it  has 
haunted  me  ever  since — haunted,  haunted, 
haunted  me,  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  I  lie 
awake,  and  the  clock  strikes  hour  after  hour, 
and  the  rain  beats  on  the  roof,  and  I  think  of 
father.  I  cannot  make  the  same  mistake 
again.     I  must  go  to  my  mother." 

Mariana  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  And  such  a 
mother ! " 

"  She  was  all  the  mother  we  had,"  I  answered. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then  Mariana 
began  again,  her  soft  chin  sulky,  and  no  longer 
dimpled.  "You  have  not  money  enough  to 
take  you  there,"  she  said  coldly ;  "  and  I  am 
happy  to  say  I  feel  sure  Mr.  Stodmarsh  will 
not  ca.e  to  supply  you  with  any,  for  such  a 
purpose." 

"That  is  true,"  I  replied.  I  had  ahnost 
completed  my  trousseau  and  spent  my  thirty 


3>o 


Rosalba 


pieces  of  silver.  Then  I  waited  and  reflected. 
*'  Mariana,"  I  said  at  last,  "  you  have  plenty. 
If  you  will  not  go  yourself,  at  least  assist  me 
in  doing  what  is  for  both  of  us  a  duty.  Li.'nd 
nie  ten  pounds — to  go  and  see  our  mother." 

Mariana's  voice  might  have  frozen  the 
Thames.  It  was  clear  as  a  bell,  and  frigid. 
"  I  will  not  lend  you  one  penny — to  ruin  both 
of  us.  All  the  world  must  hear  of  it,  if  you 
insist  on  going ;  and  they  will  learn  that  my 
mother  was  a — well,  was  what  we  know  her 
to  have  been.  If  /can  prevent  it,  you  shall 
never  go.  You  will  compromise  yourself ;  and 
what  is  worse,  you  will  compromise  Me.  I 
have  my  Future  to  think  about." 

I  rose  from  my  seat  and  moved  towards  the 
door.  "Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked, 
rising  and  trying  to  intercept  me. 

"  To  mother,"  I  answered,  with  my  fingers 
on  tht  '  andle.  "  I  cannot  keep  away.  I 
must  go  to  her,  instantly." 

•*  How  will  you  get  the  money?" 

"  That  is  my  affair,  Mariana.  You  refuse 
to  find  it  for  me.     I  must  raise  it  elsewhere." 

I  descended  the  stairs,  stumbling,  and 
mounted  my  bicycle,  which  was  waiting  obe- 
dient at  the  door.     After  Mariana,  it  seemed 


J 


More  Thunderbolts 


3" 


il  and  reflected. 
:)u  have  plenty, 
least  assist  me 
a  duty.     Lend 
our  mother." 
ve    frozen    the 
bell,  and  frigid. 
y — to  ruin  both 
ear  of  it,  if  you 
1  learn  that  my 
t  we  know  her 
jnt  it,  you  shall 
»e  yourself ;  and 
jromise   Me.     I 
t." 

ved  towards  the 
g?"  she  asked, 
ne. 

with  my  fingers 
keep  away.     I 

ley?" 

la.     You  refuse 
e  it  elsewhere." 
stumbling,    and 
ras  waiting  obe- 
iriana,  it  seemed 


quite  sympathetic.  As  fast  as  I  could  make 
my  sinuous  way  through  the  streams  of  close- 
packed  traffic— cabs  and  omnibuses  darting 
upon  me  from  all  sides — I  hurried  round  to  the 
Local  Government  Hoard.  "Mr.  Siodmarsh 
is  engaged,  Miss."  "  No  matter."  1  took  out 
a  card  and  wrote  on  it  "  Urgent,"  thrice  un- 
derlined. "I  must  see  him  at  once.  Give 
him  that.     I  will  wait  tor  him." 

In  a  minute,  I  was  ushered  up  into  a  small 
side-room,  very  scantily  furnished.  It  had  an 
orderly  confusion  of  blue-books  and  papers 
on  the  table — as  one  mjght  expect  from  John 
— and  there  John  soon  came  to  me.  "  Excuse 
this  barn,"  he  said  hastily,  glancing  round  him 
at  the  neat  red-tape-tied  bundles.  "  I  am 
busy  to-day — very  important  State  Papers  to 
talk  over  with  a  Cabinet  Minister.  But  I  ex- 
plained the  nature  of  the  interruption  to  Sir 
Andrew  " — he  glanced  at  my  card — "  and  he 
kindly  excused  me  for  just  three  minutes.  We 
both  feared  we  knew  the  object  of  your  visit — 
for  we  have  soen  the  paper.  I  sympathise, 
dear  Rosalba ;  but  we  must  act  with  caution. 
Your  sister  Mariana  will,  of  course " 

••  John,"    I  said,  "  I  am  going  to  her." 

"To  Mariana?" 


312 


Rosalba 


"  No,  to  my  mother ! " 
He   gazed  at    me,   stupefied.      "My  dear 
child,"  he  said  at  last,  "  it  would  be  a  fatal 
blunder." 

"  I  cannot  help  that ! "    I  said,  and  then  I 
told  him  how  I  felt,  as  I   had  told  Mariana. 
He  listened  respectfully,  but  with  disapproval 
growing  visibly  on  his  clean-shaven  face  each 
moment.     When  I  had  finished,  he  said  with 
forced  calm,  "  You  must  not  go,  Rosalba." 
"  I  am  going,  John." 
••  I  forbid  it.     Categorically . ' 
*'  I  can't  let  that  weigh  with  me.     This  is  a 
question  of  duty.     John,  I   never  asked  you 
for   money  before  ;   but  I    ask  you    now.     I 
want  money  to  go  to  my  dying  mother." 

"  Rosalba,  I  grieve  to  refuse  you  anything ; 
but  I  must  protect  you  from  yourself.  More 
than  that.  You  are  not  yet  of  age.  By  your 
mother's  express  consent  in  writing,  extracted 
from  her  that  day  at  Miss  Westmacott's,  I  am 
your  guardian."  His  lips  grew  thinner  as  he 
spoke.  "I  stand  to  you  therefore  in  loco 
parentis,  and  I  forbid  you  to  go  to  her." 

"  John,  there  is  a  higher  sanction  that  com- 
pels me  to  go." 

"No,  Rosalia;   if  you  insist  upon   going. 


J 


;d.  "My  dear 
ould  be  a  fatal 

laid,  and  then  I 
,d  told  Mariana, 
with  disapproval 
ihaven  face  each 
led,  he  said  with 
JO,  Rosalba." 


h  me.     This  is  a 
lever  asked  you 
sk  you    now.     I 
g  mother." 
;e  you  anything ; 
yourself.     More 
Df  age.     By  your 
vriting,  extracted 
estmacott's,  I  am 
rew  thinner  as  he 
therefore  in   loco 
go  to  her." 
inction  that  com- 

sist  upon   going, 


More  Thunderbolts 


313 


you  must  understand  the  penalty."  His  lips 
faded  out.  "  On  every  ground,  I  forbid  you— 
as  your  guardian,  and  as  your  future  husband. 
Do  you  understand  that  ?     You  are  not  to  go 

to  her." 

I  bowed  my  head.     "Very  well,  John,"    I 

answered. 

He  grasped  my  hand,  misunderstanding  my 

"  Very  well." 

"  That  is  right,  dear,"  he  answered.  "  Now 
I  must  return  to  Sir  Andrew.  Let  me  see— 
what  engagements  have  I  this  morning  ? " 
He  consulted  his  note-book— he  was  the  slave 
of  notes.  "  Ah,  I  lunch  at  the  Duddleswells'. 
At  three,  I  go  with  Lady  Duddleswell  and 
Gwendoline  to  the  Old  Masters.  Very  well, 
then  ;  at  half-past  four  I  will  come  to  Linda's 
to  discuss  this  more  fully  with  you." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch  and  bade  me  good- 
bye. "  Good-bye,  John,"  I  answered.  I  meant 
it.     Then  I  went  downstairs  again. 

I  hardly  knew  what  to  do.  Auntie  was  in 
Cambridge.  She  had  gone  to  attend  some 
social  science  congress  or  other  grand  talkee- 
talkee~-I  forget  the  particular  name  of  it ;  she 
loved  such  frivolities.  I  could  not  wait.  I 
must  go  off  that  afternoon  by  the  club  train  to 


J 


3H 


Rosalba 


Dijon — Saint-Andr^  is  a  village  about  five 
miles  off.  I  knew  not  where  to  turn.  One 
thought  alone  possessed  me  now.  By  what- 
ever means,  I  must  go  to  my  mother. 

One  chance  remained.  I  mounted  my 
bicycle  and  rode  round  to  Dudu's. 

I  rushed  into  his  studio,  hot  and  flushed,  in  a 
turmoil  of  excitement.  He  saw  at  once  that 
something  serious  had  occurred ;  and  he  set  me 
down  in  an  armchair  and  leaned  towards  me 
deferentially.  I  told  him  the  whole  story 
much  as  I  have  told  it  here — my  visit  to  Mari- 
ana, the  fatal  telegram,  Auntie's  absence,  my 
interview  with  John,  and  the  rest.  When  I 
finished  and  paused,  crimson  but  proud,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  my  arm — "  And  you  will  allow 
me  ?  "  he  cried  eagerly. 

*'  O  Dudu  ! — I  would  allow  you — anything ! " 

"  Have  I  enough,  I  wonder  ? "  he  cried, 
opening  his  purse.  "  Dru,  darling,  is  fifteen 
pounds  sufificient  ?  If  not  " — he  glanced  about 
him — "  I  could  raise  it — somehow." 

"It  would  be  ample,"  I  said,  *' for  the 
moment.  When  I  get  there,  I  may  need 
more — in  case  she  dies — to  bury  her.  But 
that  would  do  for  the  journey  and  hotels  at 
least.     O  Dudu  !  how  good  of  you  !  " 


J 


More  Thunderbolts 


3>5 


re  about  five 
to  turn.  One 
3w.  By  what- 
)ther. 

mounted  my 
•s. 

id  flushed,  in  a 
f  at  once  that 
and  he  set  me 
d  towards  me 
:  whole  story 
/  visit  to  Mari- 
s  absence,  my 
est.  When  I 
but  proud,  he 
1  you  will  allow 

J — anything ! " 
:  ? "  he  cried, 
ling,  IS  fifteen 

glanced  about 

If 

»w. 

lid,    "for  the 

I    may   need 

iry   her.     But 

and  hotels  at 

^ou ! " 


•'  And  how  good  of  you  to  let  me  !  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  ask  you  if  you  had  not  half 
suggested  it.  Dru,  you  are  too  kind  to  me. 
And— you  will  let  me  go  with  you  ?" 

••  No,  Dudu,"  I  cried.  *'  Impossible  !  What 
would  everybody  say  ?  We  cannot  keep  this 
thing  quie  It  has  got  into  the  papers  already. 
It  will  all  come  out  now.  I  must  go— alone 
— to  her." 

«•  But— I  can't  bear  to  let  you  go  alone. 
May  I  not  follow--at  a  respectful  distance  ?  " 
I  shook  my  head.  **  I  am  a  born  Bohe- 
mian," I  said  ;  "  and  for  myself  and  you,  I 
trust  you.  But  we  have  others  to  think  of — 
John's  pride — and  Auntie." 

*'  When  do  you  mean  to  start  ?" 
"At  once.     This  afternoon.     Going  home 
to  pack  a  few  things  in  a  bag,  if  there  is  time. 
If  not,  just  so,  in  the  gown  I  am  wearing." 

"And  you  will  go  alone— to  this  dreadful 
little  village — among  anarchists  and  what-not 
— alone  and  unprotected  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid,"  I  answered.  "  An- 
archists are  my  brethren.  I  was  born  anarchic. 
Remember,  to  me  continental  countries  are  not 
strange  as  they  are  to  you  English.  I  am 
quite  at  home  in  French  and  Italian.     I  can 


3i6 


Rosalba 


take  the  people  as  they  are.     And  I  have  lived 
on  the  road.     Rough  folk  do  not  alarm  me." 

H  e  held  my  hands.  * '  Still,  Dru  "—he  spoke 
wistfully — "  if\  might  follow  and  take  care  of 
you ! 

"  Arthur,"  I  cried,  "  I  see  what  you  are 
thinking !     You  half  mean  to  sneak  after  me." 

He  looked  sheepish.  "  I  did  mean  it,"  he 
answered,  like  a  schoolboy  detected  in  a  scrape. 
"  I  thought  I  would  let  you  go,  and  then  steal 
quietly  after  you.'" 

"  Promise  me  you  will  not ! "  I  cried  earnestly. 
•*  It  would  be  a  great  mistake.  O  Dudu,  I  beg 
of  you,  promise  me,  and  keep  your  promise !  " 

He  struggled  for  a  while  ;  but  I  made  him 
do  as  I  said.  At  last  he  answered,  "  Well, 
Dru,  I  promise  it." 

"  That  'a  right,  dear  ! "  I  cried.  And  I 
pressed  his  hand  gently. 

He  bent  forward.  "  Then  I  may,  Dru  ? 
You  are  no  longer  John  Stodmarsh's." 

I  waved  him  aside  tenderly.  "  Not  yet, 
dear,"  I  answered.  "  Not  just  now— not  to- 
day— when  my  mother  is  dying." 

I  rose  to  go.  But  I  was  faint  with  excite- 
ment ;  the  ground  reeled  under  me.  I  caught 
at  a  chair.     *'  How  white  you  are  !"   he  cried. 


More  Thunderbolts 


317 


id  I  have  lived 
)t  alarm  me." 
■u  " — he  spoke 
d  take  care  of 

what  you  are 
eak  after  me." 
'  mean  it,"  he 
ted  in  a  scrape, 
and  then  steal 


"You  must  have  a  glass  of  wine!"  And  he 
fetched  a  decanter. 

I  seized  his  hand  to  check  him.  "  No, 
no  ! "  I  cried.  "  Not  that  poison  !  You  know 
I  never  touch  it." 

"  But,  dearest,  you  are  ill.  You  don't  mean 
to  say  you  refuse  it  even  now  ?  " 

"More  than  ever  now  !  "  I  cried.  "  I  know 
where  it  led  her." 


:ried  earnestly. 
O  Dudu,  I  beg 
our  promise ! " 
Lit  I  made  him 
jwered,  "  Well, 

;ried.      And    I 

I   may,    Dru  ? 

arsh's." 

y.     "Not   yet, 

;  now — not  to- 
il 

nt  with  excite- 

nie.     I  caught 

xe  ! "   he  cried. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

AT   SAINT-ANDR6 

THE  long  night-journey  across  France  to 
Dijon  gave  me  abundance  of  time  to 
consider  my  position.  I  dozed  occasionally,  it 
is  true,  propped  up  in  one  corner  of  the  jolting 
carriage  ;  but  as  every  seat  was  fully  occupied, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Paris- Lyon- M^diter- 
ran^e,  much  sleep  was  impossible.  I  gazed 
blankly  out  of  the  window  now  and  again  at 
bare  stretches  of  dimly  lit  hedgeless  fields,  in- 
terspersed with  spectral  rows  of  tall  poplars 
fringing  the  long  straight  roads,  and  interrupted 
at  times  by  the  flashing  red  lights  and  pallid 
yellow  gas-lamps  of  some  country  station, 
through  which  our  train  dashed,  screaming, 
with  phantasmagoric  haste.  Ghostly  plains, 
threaded  by  dark  rivers,  which  only  the  reflec- 
tions of  the  stars  revealed ;  parallel  rows  of 
lights  seen  from  above  as  we  shot  through  some 

3i8 


II 


cross  France  to 
ince  of  time  to 
1  occasionally,  it 
er  of  the  jolting 
5  fully  occupied, 
s-Lyon-M^diter- 
ssible.  I  gazed 
)w  and  again  at 
Igeless  fields,  in- 
;  of  tall  poplars 
,  and  interrupted 
ights  and  pallid 
country  station, 
hed,  screaming. 
Ghostly  plains, 
li  only  the  reflec- 
parallel  rows  of 
lot  through  some 


I 


At  Saint-Andrd 


319 


town  ;  black  falls  of  woodland  clinging  to  the 
hillsides.  It  was  a  weird  journey— away  from 
my  home,  my  friends,  my  position,  my  pro- 
spects, all  utterly  left  behind  or  destroyed  or 
ruined,  and  on,  on,  on  across  the  misty  levels 
of  that  interminable  dull  plain  with  its  faintly 
twinkling  lights  towards  the  doubtful  goal  of 
my  dead  or  dying  mother. 

Should  I  reach  her  alive  ?— that  was  the  chief 
question  which  agitated  me  as  we  whirled 
through  the  solemn  gloom.  Should  I  be  in 
time  to  see  her  fortified  by  the  last  rites  of 
the  Church,  anointed  with  the  holy  oil,  strength- 
ened for  her  last  journey  by  the  consecrated 
wafer?  I  clasped  my  hands  »ow  and  then 
and  prayed  to  that  Heaven  in  which  John 
Stodmarsh  had  done  his  best  to  shake  my 
wavering  faith,  that  I  might  still  be  in  ^  ..e 
to  soothe  the  last  moments  of  the  mother  I 
had  never  loved,  the  mother  whose  injustice 
had  driven  me  forth  upon  the  world  in  un- 
timely childhood. 

For  the  most  part,  that  terrible  doubt— was 
she  living  ?  was  she  dead  ?— filled  my  mind  to 
the  exclusion  of  every  other  idea.  But  now 
and  again,  in  the  course  of  my  vigil,  too,  I 
had  time  by  snatches  to  reflect  upon  my  rela- 


J 


320 


Rosalba 


tions  with  John  Stodmarsh  and  my  position  in 

the  future. 

Amid  the  gloom  and  solitude  of  that  night- 
ride for  though  I  was  surrounded  by  fellow- 
travellers,  I  spoke  to  no  one— light  fell  upon 
many  things ;  1  saw  them  more  clearly  in  that 
outer  darkness  than  I  had  seen  them  before. 
Especially  it  came  home  to  me  that  my  bar- 
gain with  John  Stodmarsh  had  been  from  the 
beginning  a  false  and  a  bad  one.    It  was  never 
binding.     I  was  too  young  to  know ;  for  no 
one,  boy  or  girl,  can  realise  what  these  pro- 
mises mean  before  the  coming  on  of  the  Great 
Awakening.     But  more  than  that ;  even  if  I  had 
made  such  a  covenant  with  my  eyes  open,  as 
I  made  it  with  my  eyes  closed,  it  would  have 
been  wrong  of  me  to  fulfil  it— untrue  to  my- 
self, untrue  to  John,  untrue  above  all  to  those 
that  might  afterward  be  born  of  us.    You  may 
call  it  unmaidenly  to   face  that  point;  Miss 
Westmacott   would   have   held   it   so  ;  but    I 
faced  it  none  the  less:  for   if  one  is  born  a 
woman,  surely  one  holds  the  great  and  holy 
privilege  of  child-bearing  in  trust  for  human- 
ity ;  and  surely  one  must  approach  that  God- 
given  duty  reverently   and   devoutly   indeed, 
but  bravely   and   frankly   too.  with  full  con- 


At  Saint-Andr^ 


321 


my  position  in 

2  of  that  night- 
nded  by  fellow- 
-light  fell  upon 
:  clearly  in  that 
:n  them  before, 
le  that  my  bar- 
l  been  from  the 
s.    It  was  never 
)  know ;  for  no 
vhat  these  pro- 
on  of  the  Great 
at ;  even  if  I  had 
y  eyes  open,  as 
1,  it  would  have 
—untrue  to  my- 
)Ove  all  to  those 
)f  us.    You  may 
lat  point ;  Miss 
d   it   so  ;  but    I 
F  one  is  born  a 

great  and  holy 
trust  for  human- 
roach  that  God- 
levoutly   indeed, 

3  with  full  con- 


sciousness of  its  meaning.  I  faced  it  so  that 
night,  and  something  within  me  or  without  me 
bore  in  upon  me  the  truth  that  to  unite  oneself 
to  a  man  whom  one  does  not  love  is  treason  to 
oneself  and  to  one's  unborn  babes — to  unite 
oneself  to  a  man  whom  one  loves  and  trusts  is 
a  duty  to  oneself  and  to  those  who  hereafter 
may  call  one  mother. 

Like  Constantine's  cross  in  the  sky,  the 
truth  flashed  fiery  on  me.  I  saw  that  I  had 
been  misled  by  false  ideals.  This  Juggernaut 
of  honour  toppled  in  its  car.  I  was  bound  to 
John  Stodmarsh— yes ;  but  what  was  that 
formal  obligation  compared  to  the  deeper  and 
more  primitive  obligation  to  be  true  to  myself, 
true  to  my  own  inmost  ideals  of  purity,  true 
to  the  instinct  which  bids  us  cleave  to  this  man 
and  reject  that  one — the  instinct  which  tells  for 
the  good  and  improvement  of  humanity  ?  My 
fetish  disappeared.  I  had  bowed  down  to  it 
too  long.     To-night  I  broke  it. 

All  this  flashed  upon  me,  I  say,  from  within 
—or  from  without.  Perhaps  it  was  the  voice 
of  nature  and  of  reason  ;  perhaps  it  was  di- 
rect monition  from  the  Powers  that  are  above 
us.  And  p  irhaps  it  was  l^ofh  ;  for  may  not 
both  be  one  ?— may  not  the  Voice  that  speaks 

SI 


322 


Rosalba 


from  within  be  the  echo  implanted  in  us  of  the 
Word  without  ?  I  prayed  for  Hght :  was  not 
Hirht  vouchsafed  me  ? 

John  Stodmarsh's  sense  of  dignity  !  Thanlc 
Heaven  !  John  Stodmarsh's  sense  of  dignity 
had  taken  care  of  itself.  I  had  not  rejected 
him  ;  he  had  rejected  me.  He  could  go  about 
and  say ;  "  I  meant  to  marry  the  girl,  but  for- 
tunately, before  I  took  that  fatal  step,  she 
gravely  disobeyed  and  displeased  me.  I  have 
broken  off  the  match,  which  was,  after  all,  a 
most  quixotic  one.  This  waif  of  the  highroad 
attracted  me  at  first  by  the  very  oppositeness 
of  her  qualities  to  my  own  ;  I  see  now  it  is 
better  for  a  man  to  marry  in  his  own  rank  of 
life  and  among  his  own  people." 

John  Stodmarsh's  money!  Yes,  I  owed 
John  Stodmarsh  the  expenses  of  my  educa- 
tion. But,  in  a  sense,  that  was  all.  Pounds 
sterling  can  always  be  repaid  by  pounds  ster- 
ling. And  I  had  none.  But  I  could  earn 
them.  Mariana  was  earning  large  sums  ;  Pac- 
tolus  flowed  in  upon  her :  and  though  I  had 
not  Mariana's  glorious  soprano  voice,  yet  I 
might  say  without  vanity  I  was  cleverer  than 
Mariana — more  varied,  more  original.  I  made 
up  my  mind  in  the  train  as  we  whirled,  snort- 


At  Saint-Andrd 


323 


in  ted  in  us  of  the 
(f  light :  was  not 

dignity  !  Thank 
sense  of  dignity 
had  not  rejected 
e  could  go  about 
'  the  girl,  but  for- 
t  fatal  step,  she 
ased  me.     I  have 

was,  after  all,  a 
if  of  the  highroad 
i^ery  oppositeness 
;  I  see  now  it  is 
1  his  own  rank  of 
le." 

!  Yes,  I  owed 
3es  of  my  educa- 
was  all.  Pounds 
d  by  pounds  ster- 
Jut  I  could  earn 
large  sums  ;  Pac- 
md  though  I  had 
rano  voice,  yet  I 
was  cleverer  than 
;  original.  I  made 
we  whirled,  snort- 


ing lurid  steam  in  the?  glow  of  the  engine, 
across  the  dimly  star-lit  uplands  of  Burgundy, 
that  I  would  set  to  work  at  once  when  I  got 
back  to  London  to  earn  my  own  living,  and 
repay  John  Stodmarsh. 

Then  again,  after  all,  his  anger  might  be 
short-lived.  When  he  saw  I  had  disobeyed 
him  and  gone  to  my  mother,  he  might  change 
his  mind  and  wish  to  forgive  me — wish  still 
to  marry  me.  In  that  case,  what?  Thank 
God  for  the  light !  I  saw  more  clearly  now  ; 
and  I  resolved,  if  that  were  so,  to  refuse  him. 

As  clearly  as  I  had  felt  my  debt  to  him  before, 
just  so  clearly  did  I  feel  my  debt  to  myself 

now — my  debt  to  my  own  soul — and  my  debt 

to  Dudu. 

Self-sacrifice   is    not  always   one's   highest 

duty.     There  are  cases  when  it  is  even  one's 

v/oist  moral  enemy. 

We  pulled  up  at  Dijon  in  the  grey  dawn. 

Weary  with  a  sleepless  night,  I  hired  2.  fiacre 

at  once  and  drove  out  through  white  mists  of 

morning  to  Saint-Andrd.     Frost  was    in   the 

air.     Yellow  leaves  fluttered  down  from  the 

trees  upon  the  roadway. 

A  gendarme  directed  me  to  the  house  where 

la  nommde  Lupari  la)%     She  might  be  dead ; 


.V4 


Rosalba 


or  she  mi^ht  not.  The  administration  had  not 
yet  heard  news  this  morning.  Nobody  else 
stirred.  Bhie  smoke  just  curled  here  and  there 
from  a  cottage  chimney. 

I  found  the  squaHd  house  ;  I  entered  the 
wretched  room,  alone  and  trembling.  I  was 
chilled  with  my  drive.  My  mother  lay  on  an 
ill-kept  bed;  I  looked  at  her,  holding  my 
breath  :  she  was  still  breathing.  By  her  head 
knelt  a  sombre  French  priest  with  the  holy 
elements.  I  was  in  time,  then !  I  was  in 
time  !     She  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  me. 

**  Have  ye  come,  Mariana?"  she  asked  in  a 
feeble  voice,  but  very  excitedly.  She  stretched 
her  wasted  hand  towards  me.  I  took  it  in  my 
own. 

*'  No,  not  Mariana,  Mother,"  I  answered. 
"  Mariana  was  detained  by  her  engagements  in 
London.  But  I  have  come  in  her  place.  You 
know  me, — Rosalba  ! " 

She  lifted  herself  in  her  bed  with  a  convul- 
sive gasp.  Excitement  seemed  to  choke  her. 
•'An'  is  it  Rosalba?"  she  cried,  her  face 
twitching  with  a  stormy  tumult  of  feeling. 
She  shrank  from  me  as  she  looked.  "  Mari- 
ana has  shtopped  away ;  an'  ye  have  come, 
Rosalba?" 


At  Saint-Andre 


325 


listration  had  not 
r.  Nobody  else 
;d  here  and  there 

; ;  I  entered  the 
embhng.  I  was 
nother  lay  on  an 
ler,  holding  my 
ig.  By  her  head 
it  with  the  holy 
hen !  I  was  in 
and  saw  me. 
"  she  asked  in  a 
r.  She  stretched 
I  took  it  in  my 

er,"  I  answered, 
r  engagements  in 
1  her  place.    You 

ed  with  a  convul- 
led  to  choke  her. 

cried,  her  face 
imult   of  feeling. 

looked.  "  Mari- 
1'  ye  have  come, 


"Yes,  Mother,"  I  answered.  "I  have  come. 
I  could  not  keep  away  from  you.  Lie  down 
and  calm  yourself." 

The  ciir^  interposed.  He  was  a  tall,  thin 
man  with  an  ascetic  face,  made  more  gloomy 
by  the  long,  straight  fall  of  his  robes.  It  gave 
me  a  shudder  to  look  at  him.  "  She  is  dying. 
via f lie"  he  said.  "She  needs  the  consola- 
tions of  religion.  Not  a  word  to  distract 
her!" 

"  Not  a  word,  mon  pire"  I  answered.  "  I 
will  not  int<   rupt.     Proceed  with  your  office." 

"  No,  no  ! "  my  mother  cried,  struggling 
hard  to  speak,  though  scarcely  able  to  do  so. 
"  I  have  something  to  confess.  Something 
that  I  have  kept  hid  from  ye.  I  can't  die  wid 
it  on  me  sowl.  Rosalba,  Rosalba  !  \  was  for 
the  sake  of  that  that  I  telegraphed  to  Mari- 
ana. Me  child,  me  child—"  She  struggled 
hard  to  speak,  but  her  words  choked  her. 
She  fell  back  half  insensible  on  the  squalid 
pillow. 

The  priest  looked  across  at  me  with  sur- 
prised inquiry.  "  You  are  her  daughter,  ma- 
demoiselle ?  " 

I  nodded  a  painful  assent.     "  Her  daughter." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  almost  impercepti- 


326 


Rosalba 


bly,  but  rearranged  his  sacerdotal  dress  as  if 
my'  answer  did  not  astonish  him.  "  She  has 
something  on  her  mind,"  he  whispered.  "  Some- 
thing  that  troubles  her  greatly.  She  speaks 
little  French,  but  I  can  gather  so  much.  She 
has  kept  asking  at  intervals  all  day  yesterday 
whether  you  had  yet  arrived.  It  seems  to  me 
she  wanted  to  tell  you  something  which  she 
believed  would  be  of  great  service  to  you  or 
relieve  your  mind  from  a  serious  burden.  For 
that,  I  have  delayed  administering  le  bon  dieu 

^O  h^*"-"  1-11         u 

"  I  think,"  I  answered,  "  it  is  more  likely  she 
wished  to  express  regret  for  some  part  of  her 
conduct.  But  that  is  needless  now.  If  ever 
I  have  sustained  any  wrong  at  her  hands,  I 
forgive  her  freely.  If  ever  I  have  wronged 
her,  here,  before  God's  presence  and  before 
you,  mon  plre,  I  implore  her  forgiveness." 

She  started  up  again  at  the  words,  and  en- 
deavoured to  speak,  but  could  not.  She  could 
only  clasp  my  hand  convulsively  with  a  dying 

pressure.  ^ 

Her  eyes  were  growing  glassy.     "There  is 

no  time  to  lose,  Father,"  I  said.   "  If  you  mean 

to  administer  the  last  rites  of  the  Church,  you 

must  at  once  administer  them." 


J 


At  Saint-Andr^ 


327 


otal  dress  as  if 
lim.  "She  has 
spered.  "  Some- 
ly.  She  speaks 
•  so  much.  She 
11  day  yesterday 
It  seems  to  me 
thing  which  she 
srvice  to  you  or 
us  burden.  For 
ering  le  bon  dieu 

s  more  likely  she 
5ome  part  of  her 
ss  now.  If  ever 
at  her  hands,  I 
I  have  wronged 
ence  and  before 
forgiveness." 
e  words,  and  en- 
1  not.  She  could 
/ely  with  a  dying 

assy.  "There  is 
id.  "If  you  mean 
:  the  Church,  you 

n." 


'So  I  think,  my  daughter,"  he  answered. 
And,  kneeling  by  her  bed,  he  proceeded  with 
the  solemn  office. 

She  did  not  speak  again.  But  her  face  grew 
calmer.  We  watched  her  till  noon.  Then  her 
th  oat  quivered  a  little ;  she  opened  her  eyes 
(  nee  ;  her  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow. 

"  C'est  la  mort"  the  priest  murmured. 

I  felt  my  heart  grow  numb.  After  all,  in 
life,  one  has  but  one  mother. 

Yet  though  I  was  conscious  of  a  stone  ir^ 
my  breast,  I  could  not  weep.  The  tears  re- 
fused to  come.  Nor  could  I  bring  myself  to 
feel  that  I  had  lost  anything.  Forgive  me, 
you  gentle-nurtured  English  girls,  who  have 
not  known  what  it  is  to  have  a  mother  like 
mine.     Grant  me  at  least  your  pity. 

I  returned  to  Dijon  late  in  the  evening, 
after  making  the  few  small  arrangements  ne- 
cessary for  the  funeral.  1  had  left  a  note  in 
London  telling  Auntie  of  my  trouble,  and  ask- 
ing her  to  lend  me  money  for  this  last  service, 
if  Mariana  refused  to  pay  it. 

The  drive  back  was  an  eternity  of  terror. 
We  passed  through  long  ghostly  avenues  of 
gaunt  black  poplars ;  a  chink  of  starless  sky 


J 


328 


Rosalba 


hardly  showed  through  their  summits.  Yellow 
leaves  still  fell.  The  loneliness  appalled  me. 
And  I  must  sleep  by  myself  in  thr.t  friendless 
city  at  the  end  of  my  drive — if  it  ever  had  an 
end.  Still,  the  tears  would  not  come.  My 
eyes  were  hard  balls ;  they  burned  internally. 

Af't-r  years  of  dark  misery,  I  think,  I  alighted 
at  the  door  of  the  Hdtel  de  la  Cloche,  where  I 
had  already  engaged  a  room  for  that  evening. 
The  awful  solitude  of  my  position  weighed 
upon  me.  I  felt  how  civilisation  had  eaten 
into  my  heart  of  courage,  for  I  could  not  help 
contrasting  my  shrinking  awe  that  night  at 
Dijon  with  the  blithe  stroll  I  took  across  the 
Kentish  downs  (singing  like  Christian  after  he 
had  lost  his  burden)  on  the  morning  when  I 
sloughed  off  the  First  Murderer. 

At  the  door  of  the  Cloche— Arthur  Wing- 
ham  was  waiting  for  me. 

With  a  cry  of  wild  joy,  I  stretched  out  both 
hands.  I  had  forbidden  him  to  come,  and  ex- 
acted a  promise  from  him ;  but  I  will  not  pre- 
tend !  was  not  delighted  to  see  him.  After 
the  forlornness  of  that  long  day,  it  was  happi- 
ness to  behold  a  face  one  knew  and  loved— 
even  though  one  had  forbidden  it. 

Convention  went  to  tha  winds.    "  Dudu  !"  I 


At  Saint-Andre 


3^9 


ummits.  Yellow 
:ss  appalled  me. 
n  thr.t  friendless 
if  it  ever  had  an 
not  come.  My 
jrned  internally. 

think,  I  alighted 
,  Cloche,  where  I 
for  that  evening. 
)osition  weighed 
lation  had  eaten 

I  could  not  help 
/e  that  night  at 
[  took  across  the 
Christian  after  he 

morning  when  I 
rer. 
i — Arthur  Wing- 

tretched  out  both 
to  come,  and  ex- 

)ut  I  will  not  pre- 
see  him.     After 

day,  it  was  happi- 

:new  and  loved — 

en  it. 

nds.    "Dudu!"I 


cried.    "  You  here !    And  you  promised  not  to 

follow  me  ! " 

"  1  promised  not  to  follow  you — Why,  my 
child,  how  cold  !  You  're  as  blue  as  a  plum  ! " 
He  caught  me  up  iii  his  ?rms,  as  the  roc  caught 
Sindbad,  and  carried  ine  into  the  square  hall 
of  the  hotel.  There  he  laid  me  down  gently. 
"  Here  she  is,  Linda :  exonerate  me  ! " 

Auntie  rose  from  a  lounge,  very  pale  but 
sweet,  and  kissed  me  twice  on  each  cold  cheek. 
"  Darling,"  she  said,  "  I  can  read  in  your  face 
what  you  have  suffered.  Blr.mc  this  journey 
to  my  account.  Arthur  came  to  me  at  Cam- 
bridge and  explained  everything.  I  have  taken 
it  upon  myself  to  brave  your  veto,  and  to  bring 
him  with  me.  I  am  chaperon  enough  for  both. 
I  promised  him  absolution.    Rosalba  dear,  you 

absolve  him  ?  " 

I  kissed  her  twice  in  return.  '  One  for  you," 
I  said,  clinging  to  her.  "  And  one—for  him. 
Auntie  dear,  how  good  of  you  !  This  burden 
was  more  than  I  could  bear  alone.— Dudu,  dear 
Dudu— thanks— for  breaking  your  promise." 

I  was  glad  they  had  come,  but— how  sweet 
of  them,  too,  to  remain  at  Dijon  instead  of 
following  me  to  Saint-Andre  !  For  if  they  had 
seen  her,  I  do  not  think  I  could  have  borne  it. 


330 


Rosalba 


I  went  upstairs  with  Auntie,  flung  myself 
on  my  bed,  and  cried,  and  cried,  and  cried,  and 
cried.  The  tears  came  now.  Auntie  held  my 
hand  and  said  nothing. 

Oh,  the  luxury  of  a  good  long  cry !  the  de- 
licious unrestrained  wallowing  misery  of  it! 
Poor  men,  I  pity  them  !  They  must  bottle  up 
their  feelings  ;  they  must  let  their  grief  or  their 
indignation  smoulder.  But  we  can  throw  our- 
selves down,  bury  our  faces  in  our  pillows,  and 
give  ourselves  up  with  absolute  self-surrender 
to  an  orgy  of  tears,  a  wild  revel  of  wretchedness. 

The  doubt  of  God's  providence  smote  me 
still.     Why  did  God  give  me  such  a  mother  ? 

Kyrie  eleison  !  Christe  eleison !  Kyrie 
eleison  ! 

And  yet,  even  God  cannot  make  the  past 
not  have  been. 

She  was  my  mother. 


I,  flung  myself 
,  and  cried,  and 
\untie  held  my 

ig  cry  !  the  de- 
misery  of  it ! 
must  bottle  up 
:ir  grief  or  their 
can  throw  our- 
)ur  pillows,  and 
e  self-surrender 
if  wretchedness. 

ence  smote  me 
uch  a  mother  ? 
ileison !     Kyrie 

make  the  past 


gj. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


A    REVELATIO- 


WE  waited  at  Dijon  to  bury  that  poor 
corpse.  It  was  a  religious  duty.  The 
Italian  peasant  attaches  grave  importance  to 
the  last  rites  of  death  ;  and  in  that  matter  I 
am  still  an  Italian  peasant.  Antigone-like,  I 
felt  I  must  bury  my  dead,  at  whatever  hazard. 

It  was  a  strange  and  lonely  little  ceremony 
—just  Auntie,  Arthur,  the  sombre  priest,  and 
myself ;  and  we  returned  home  silently  to  the 
Hdtel  de  la  Cloche  from  the  cemetery  at  Saint- 
Andrd.  How  grateful  I  felt  to  my  two  dears 
for  standing  by  me  in  this  trouble  I  cannot 
put  into  words.  To  have  performed  that  last 
office  alone  with  the  priest  would  have  been 
more  than  a  girl  of  twenty-one  could  easily 
compass. 

May  she  rest  in  peace  !     If  prayers  for  a 
troubled  soul  avail,  she  has  mine  daily. 


a«i 


332 


Rosalba 


Next  morning,  we  set  out  on  our  return 
journey  to  England.  England,  dear  England, 
have  I  railed  at  you  at  times?  How  I  loved 
you  that  day,  when  I  felt  myself  so  far  from 
you  ! 

Two  lands  in   Europe  twine  their  tendrils 

ever  deeper   round    one's   htt^rt Italy   and 

England. 

^"5<ie  had  telegraphed  the  hour  of  our  ex- 

"pfe^cted   arrival   to   her  servants   at   the    flat. 

When  we  reached  home,  tired  and  dusty,  with 

Arthur  in  our  train,  I  was  astonished  to  find 

Mariana  (in  an  amazing  hat)  waiting  for  us. 

She  kissed  me,  somewhat  frigidly,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  vast  brim ;  but  still,  she  kissed 
me.  Mouse-like  and  demure  as  ever,  with  her 
soft  dimpled  chin  enveloped  in  lavender  gos- 
samer, she  was  yet  big  with  some  strange  news. 
She  suppressed  it  with  difficulty  till  she  had 
asked  a  few  decent  conventional  questions. 
*•  Dead  !  Yes  ;  I  knew  ;  it  was  telegraphed  to 
the  papers.  And  jy^«  attended  her  funeral.  I 
must  explain  that  away.  However,  thank 
goodness,  it  is  all  right  now.  I  have  taken  this 
matter  in  hand.  I  have  explained  away  every- 
thing." 

"But  to  what   do  I  owe   this   honour?"  I 


J 


A  Revelation 


333 


on  our  return 
I,  clear  England, 
*  How  I  loved 
elf  so  far  from 

e  their  tendrils 
]rt —  Italy   and 

hour  of  our  ex- 
:s  at  the  flat, 
and  dusty,  with 
onished  to  find 
aiting  for  us. 
^idly,  under  the 
still,  she  kissed 
iS  ever,  with  her 
n  lavender  gos- 
le  strange  news. 
Ity  till  she  had 
ional  questions. 
5  telegraphed  to 
I  her  funeral.  I 
iowever,  thank 
have  taken  this 
ned  away  every- 

liis   honour?"  I 


asked,  somewhat  angrily ;  it  would  have  been 
more  becoming  in  Mariana,  I  thought,  after 
shirking  her  plain  duty,  to  have  kept  to  her 
first  resolution  of  ignoring  me.  '*  You  know, 
you  were  never  going  to  speak  to  me 
again." 

'*  Sz,  si;  I  know,"  Mariana  answered  with 
an  angelic  smile.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  speak 
to  you — if  you  had  wrecked  my  ship.  How- 
ever, it  is  quite  unimportant  now.  I  have 
found  that  woman  out.  I  have  manoeuvred 
the  papers.     I  am  arranging  everything." 

I  sank  on  the  sofa,  very  pale  and  faint. 
Auntie  supported  me  on  her  arm.  "  You  must 
have  a  glass  of  wine,"  she  cried.  "  Arthur,  run 
for  the  decanters !  Pour  her  out  some  port. 
Or  no,  bring  champagne  ;  that  is  the  best  pick- 
me-up.     It  will  restore  her  faster." 

Dudu  rushed  off  to  get  it,  and  began  unwir- 
ing  the  cork.  I  took  no  notice,  but  waved  the 
poisonous  stuff  away  with  one  hand.  "What 
does  this  mean,  Mariana?  Do  please  be 
explicit ! " 

Mariana  made  no  reply,  but  nodding  her 
ostrich  feathers  with  a  triumphant  air,  handed 
me  over  a  newspaper  cutting. 

It  was  a  letter  to  the  editor  : 


334 


Rosalba 


"  Sir,— I  see  that  in  the  telegrams  relating  to  the  recent 
atrocious  crime  at  Saint- Andr6  the  name  of  one  of  the 
sufferers  is  given  as  Signora  Lupari,  and  she  is  described 
as  my  mother.  I  desire  to  state  in  the  most  emphatic, 
wav  thn*  there  is  absolutely  no  truth  in  this  report,  and 
that  the  woman  ir  question  is  not  related  to  me. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"Mariana  Lupari." 

I  handed  it  back  to  her  with  an  indignant 
shudder.     "  But,  Mariana,  It  is  not  true  ! " 

"  it  is  true,  every  word  of  it.  Though,  of 
course,  when  I  wrote  that  letter,  I  thought  it 
was  n  t. 

"  True?  What  do  you  mean  ?"  The  room 
whirled  and  staggered. 

"  She  was  not  our  mother.  Oh  yes — 't  is 
the  fact ;  you  need  not  stare  like  that.  I  am 
not  mad.  I  am  telling  you  the  plain  truth.  A 
reporter  from  the  Daily  Monitor  has  hunted 
it  all  up,  and  copied  out  the  documents.  I  '11 
tell  you  how  it  happened."  She  leaned  back 
on  the  ottoman  and  prepared  to  deliver  her 
mews,  looking  winning  as  ever.  "  He  came  to 
interview  me  after  my  letter  to  the  papers— 
they  tvill  come  to  interview  one ;  't  is  one  of 
our  drawbacks.  Of  course,  I  stuck  to  my 
story— tell  a  lie  and  stL.':  to  it."  She  beamed 
and  bniiled  in  her  filmy  little  wraps,  all  crdpon 


A  Revelation 


335 


latingto  the  recent 
ame  of  one  of  the 
nd  she  is  described 
he  most  emphatic 
in  this  report,  and 
Lted  to  me. 
ours, 

RIANA    LUPARI." 

;h  an  indignant 
nnt  true  ! " 
it.     Though,  of 
:er,  I  thought  it 

1?"    The  room 

Oh  yes — 't  is 
like  that.  I  am 
;  plain  truth.  A 
itor  has  hunted 
locuments.  I  '11 
She  leaned  back 
i  to  deliver  her 
.  "He  came  to 
to  the  papers — 
one  ;  't  is  one  of 
I  stuck  to  my 
t."  She  beamed 
wraps,  all  cr^pon 


I 


and  gossam'^r.  "  He  insisted.  I  denied.  He 
asked  proofs.  E  via,  e  via.  To  get  rid  of 
him,  I  sent  him  off  at  a  venture  to  the  Itahan 
church  in  Hatlon  Garden.  Well,  he  went, 
and  what  do  you  suppose  he  found  ?  "  She 
handed  me  some  copies  of  documents  from  the 
register  of  the  church  and  from  the  registrar's 
office.  I  read  them  through,  reeling.  They 
were  —  the  marriage  certificate  of  Antonio 
Lupari  and  Chiara  Lanzi ;  the  certificates  of 
birth  and  baptism  of  their  two  children, 
Mariana  and  Rosalba  ;  the  certificate  of  death 
of  Chiara,  wife  of  Antonio  Lupari ;  and  the 
certificate  of  the  morriage  of  Antonio  Lupari, 
widower,  with  Bridget  Mahoney,  spinster,  six 
weeks  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  our 
mother. 

"  These  are  all  true  ?  "  I  asked,  suspiciously. 

Mariana,  who  had  been  occupied  meanwhile 
in  sucking  the  tortoise-shell  ball  in  the  eagle's 
claw,  handed  them  across  to  Arthur  for  exam- 
ination. "True  cop^^s,"  she  cooed  back  in 
her  dove-like  voice.     "  Officially  certified." 

"  But  why  did  father  never  tell  us  ?"  I  cried. 

Mariana  extended  her  pretty  gloved  hands 
before  her,  to  show  the  palms,  with  an  Italian 
gesture.     "  How  should  I  know  ?"  she  rippled 


336 


Rosalba 


on,  raising  her  dark  lashes  and  lifting  her  lan- 
guorous eyes  to  heaven.  "  Perhaps,  procrasti- 
nator,  he  kept  putting  it  off  from  time  to  time. 
Perhaps,  prevaricator,  he  was  ashamed.  Per- 
haps, unfeeling,  he  thought  we  might  find  out 
he  had  married  that  woman  only  six  weeks 
after  the  death  of  our  mother." 

"  And  our  real  mother  ?  "  I  gasped  out. 
Mariana  rearranged  her  coquettish  red  neck- 
erchief—fluffy  crimson  silk  gauze,  tied  loosely 
around  the  throat— with  very  deliberate  fingers. 
"  I  have  been  to  the  Italian  church  myself," 
she  said  in  her  bell-clear  accents,  still  toying 
with  the  neckerchief,  "where  I  have  seen  and 
conferred  with  old   Padre    Marchesi.     He  re- 
members our  mother— a  very  good  and  devout 
woman,  he  says—'  Una  bcllissima  signora ;  un 
anima  veramcnte  divota  ! ' — and  also  a  most 
graceful  dancer.     She  had  a  taste  for  poetry, 
too ;  do  you  recollect  an  old  Dante,  dear,  and 
a  tattered  Shakespeare  that  we  had  knocking 

about  on  the  Monti  Berici? " 

Did  1  remember  them,  indeed  ?  Did  I  re- 
member the  treasured  delights  of  my  child- 
hood ?     "  Si,  si"  I  cried.    " Mi  ricordo." 

"  Well,  I  think  they  must  have  been  hers," 
Mariana  went  on,  withdrawing  one  fawn-col- 


A  Revelation 


337 


d  lifting  her  lan- 
crhaps,  procrasti- 
oni  time  to  time, 
i  ashamed.  Per- 
ire  might  find  out 
I  only  six  weeks 

gasped  out. 
rjuettish  red  neck- 
auze,  tied  loosely 
deliberate  fingers. 
I  church  myself," 
cents,  still  toying 
;  I  have  seen  and 
larchesi.  He  re- 
'  good  and  devout 
sima  signora ;  nn 
-and  also  a  most 
L  taste  for  poetry, 

Dante,  dear,  and 
we  had  knocking 

deed  ?     Did  I  re- 
yhts  of  my  child- 
Mi  ricordo" 
;  have  been  hers," 
ving  one  fawn-col- 


oured glove  to  finger  a  pet  sapphire.  "  And  I 
have  no  doubt  it  was  from  her  that  I  Myself 
h.ive  inherited  my  artistic  temperament."  Ma- 
riana looked  down  at  her  No.  3  boots,  very 
neatly  laced,  and  let  the  long  satin  eyelashes 
fringe  the  downcast  eyes  with  becoming  mod- 
esty. 

"  But  She — the  other  one — she  was  not  our 
mother!"  I  exclaimed,  my  heart  rising  tumult- 
uously. 

"  No,"  Mariana  answered.  "  She  was  not. 
So  if  only  I  had  known  sooner,  you  might 
have  been  spared  a  long  journey.  I  have  no 
doubt  it  must  have  been  an  annoying  and 
troublesome  bit  of  business." 

"  It  would  have  made  no  difference  to  me," 
I  answered.  "  I  should  have  gone  all  the 
same."  One  cannot  get  rid  of  ingrained  beliefs 
and  ideas  in  a  moment.  I  thought  she  was 
my  mother ;  I  felt  she  was  my  mother  ;  un- 
kind to  me,  unjust  to  me — but  still,  my  mother. 
I  should  have  gone  to  see  her  die ;  I  should 
have  gone  to  bury  her. 

"  How  pale  and  flurried  you  look  ! "  Mariana 
broke  in,  on  a  clear,  low  note.  "  Mrs.  Mal- 
lory,  she  is  fainting ! " 

I  staggered  over  to  the  table,  and  took  the 


338 


Rosalba 


bottle  from  Dudu's  hands.  Then  I  poured 
myself  out  a  good  glass  of  champagne,  raisiil 
it  aloft,  and  drank  it.  It  was  the  first  wine 
that  had  passed  my  lips  since  the  night  when 
I  solemnly  renounced  it  as  a  child  on  the 
Monti  Berici. 

Auntie  drew  back,  a  little  surprised,  for  she 
knew  my  repugnance.  There  was  questioning 
in  her  glance.  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  it  now,"  I 
answered,  smiling,  for  the  champagne  put  fresh 
force  into  me.  "  If  I  am  not  her  child,  thank 
God,  I  have  no  cause  to  be  afraid  of  it." 

'•  You  need  it,"  Auntie  answered,  laying  her 
cheek  against  mine.  "  This  is  a  great  revul- 
sion." 

"  Auntie,"  I  said,  nestling  towards  her,  *'  do 
you  remember,  I  told  you  at  Dijon  she  died 
evidently  anxious  to  tell  me  something  ?  It 
was  that,  I  feel  sure.  She  tried  to  speak,  but 
had  not  strength  to  frame  it." 

"  Well,  I  have  made  it  all  right,  anyhow," 
Mariana  cooed  on  in  her  calm  sweet  voice,  un- 
perturbed as  usual.  "The  reporter  brought 
me  these  things,  and  I  beamed  on  him  when  I 
had  read  them,  *  You  see,  I  told  you  so  ! '  I 
did  not  let  him  guess  what  a  discovery  he  had 
made  and  how  great  a  surprise  it  was  to  me. 


A  Revelation 


^39 


Then  I  poured 

champagne,  raised 

was  the  first  wine: 

ice  the  night  when 

IS  a  child   on   the 

e  surprised,  for  she 
:re  was  questioning 
afraid  of  it  now,"  I 
hampagne  put  fresh 
lot  her  child,  thank 
;  afraid  of  it." 
nswered,  laying  her 
lis  is  a  great  revul- 

g  towards  her,  "do 

at  Dijon  she  died 

me  something?     It 

tried  to  speak,  but 
it." 

all  right,  anyhow," 
aim  sweet  voice,  un- 
le  reporter  brought 
imed  on  him  when  I 

I  told  you  so  ! '  I 
t  a  discovery  he  had 
rprise  it  was  to  me. 


J 


I  kept  my  countenance  like  a  sphinx,  and 
merely  said,  '  You  see,  I  told  you  so !  Now, 
you  can  publish  these  facts— it  will  show  your 
enterprise.  You  can  describe  how  you  hunted 
up  the  family  records,  and  how  you  found  I 
was  right ;  my  mother  died  just  twenty-one 
years  ago,  in  giving  birth  to  my  sister  Rosalba. 
It  is  all  perfectly  clear;  you  can  print  your 
evidence.  Only,  I  offer  you  a  ten-pound  note — 
first  and  only  offer — no  advance  entertained — 
if  you  consent  to  suppress  the  certificate  of  the 
second  marriage.  You  having  hunted  the  mat- 
ter up,  no  other  reporter  will  think  of  checking 
it.  Ten  pounds — ready  cash  ;  no  second  bid  ; 
is  it  a  bargain  ? '  And  he  took  it  like  a  shot. 
Here 's  the  report,  as  you  see.  It  disposes 
once  for  all  of  that  ridiculous  rumour."  Mari- 
ana fanned  herself. 

I  read  it,  dazed.  It  mentioned  the  facts  of 
Antonio  Lupari's  marriage,  the  births  of  his 
children,  and  the  date  and  certificate  of  his 
wife's  death.  "  Miss  Rosalba  Lupari,  the 
prima  donna's  sister,  has  gone  to  Dijon,"  the 
paragraph  continued,  "  to  represent  the  family 
at  the  funeral  of  the  vicl.im  of  the  recent  out- 
rage, who  was  the  widow  of  a  certain  Signor 
Lupari,  belonging  to  a  village  near  Vicenza. 


340 


Rosalba 


The  lady  in  question  was  connected  by  mar- 
riage only  with  the  well-known  singer."  It 
was  the  literal  truth— but  the  truth  severely 
edited.  Mariana  smiled  with  conscious  pride 
and  self-approval.  She  had  saved  us  both,  she 
considered,  by  a  well-worded  paragraph,  from 
an  atrocious  scandal. 

"  But  why  have  you  kept  us  in  the  dark  so 
long  ?  "  you  ask.  "  Why  have  you  deluded  us 
into  the  belief  that  you  were  the  daughter  of  a 
drunken  mother?  You  have  harrowed  our 
feelings  for  nothing,  and  alienated  our  sympa- 
thies. Why  could  you  not  have  hinted  as 
much  from  the  beginning  ?  Why  could  you 
not  have  allowed  us  to  guess  for  ourselves 
that  you  were  not  her  child  ?  " 

Simply  because  to  have  done  so  would  have 
been  psychologically  untrue — a  violation  of  my 
Method.  I  did  not  know  the  truth  myself  till 
that  moment ;  had  I  let  you  gather  it  too  soon, 
I  would  have  given  you  a  false  sense  of  my 
position.  But  deeper  than  even  that  artistic 
need  is  this  feeling  to  me — that  I  could  recog- 
nise then  and  ever  afterward  how  instinct  had 
half  told  me  this  secret  beforehand.  I  always 
loved  and  revered  my  father ;  I  always  felt  I 


;onnected  by  mar- 
lown  singer."  It 
:he  truth  severely 
th  conscious  pride 
saved  us  both,  she 
d  paragraph,  from 


t  us  in  the  dark  so 
ive  you  deluded  us 
i  the  daughter  of  a 
ive  harrowed  our 
enated  our  sympa- 
ot  have  hinted  as 
'  Why  could  you 
uess  for  ourselves 
?" 

lone  so  would  have 
— a  violation  of  my 
he  truth  myself  till 
I  gather  it  too  soon, 
false  sense  of  my 
I  even  that  artistic 
-that  I  could  recog- 
rd  how  instinct  had 
orehand.  I  always 
er ;  I  always  felt  I 


A  Revelation 


341 


was  far  more  his  child  than  that  grotesque 
Irishwoman's.  Whether  it  was  nature  speak- 
ing to  me  or  not,  I  know  not ;  but  even  when 
I  thought  her  and  called  her  my  mother,  I 
never  regarded  her  in  the  same  light  as  I  re- 
garded my  father.    She  was  not  near  enough. 

Had  she  been  flesh  of  my  flesh  and  blood  of 
my  blood,  could  I  have  felt  such  a  repugnance 
to  her?  Would  it  have  been  in  me  to  feel  it  ? 
I  doubt  it. 

But  I  fell  on  my  knees  in  my  own  room  that 
night  and  thanked  Heaven  fervently  for  a  great 
cloud  lifted. 


T 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

A   TRANSFERENCE   OF    FEELING 

IN  the  morning,  before  office  hours,  John 
called  round  to  see  me.     I  was  not  quite 
dressed,  but  I  tidied  myself  up  a  bit,  and  hur- 
ried out  to  him,  looking  a  perfect  fright,  I 
don't  doubt,  uncomfortable  and  awkward.      1 
felt  hot  in  the  face  ;  my  fingers  twitched  nerv- 
ously.     John,  for  his  part,  was  austere  and 
rigid ;  polite,  in  his  close-shaven  way,  but  os- 
tentatiously forgiving.      "  I  have  to  condole 
with  you  on  your  loss,  Rosalba,"  he  said,  hold- 
ing his  glossy  silk  hat  in  his  hand  before  him 
as  if  to  mark  the  casual  nature  of  his  visit. 
"Though  I  understand,  of  course,  how  many 
circumstances  mitigate  it.     In  fact,  I  suppose 
we  may  venture  to  admit  that  this  is  one  of 
those  cases  where  condolence  need  not  surpass 
the  limits  of  a  decent  observance." 

"The  loss  touches  me  even  less  than  you 

342 


•CXIV 


F    FEELING 


office  hours,  John 
:.     I  was  not  quite 
■  up  a  bit,  and  hur- 
a  perfect  fright,  I 
;  and  awkward.      1 
gers  twitched  nerv- 
:,  was  austere  and 
haven  way,  but  os- 
I  have  to  condole 
alba,"  he  said,  hold- 
lis  hand  before  him 
nature  of  his  visit- 
course,  how  many 
In  fact,  I  suppose 
that  this  is  one  of 
ce  need  not  surpass 
rvance." 
even  less  than  you 


A  Transference  of  Feeling        343 

might  imagine,  John,"  I  answered.  And  I 
went  on  to  explain  to  him  how  Mariana  and 
the  reporter  had  made  a  joint  discovery. 

John  just  raised  his  faintly  pencilled  eye- 
brows, which  were  colourless,  like  so  much  of- 
him;  the  thin  lips  grew  thinner.  Then  he 
examined  the  newspaper  cuttings  one  by  one, 
and  scanned  the  copies  of  the  certificates 
closely.  "  These  would  seem  to  be  in  order," 
he  murmured,  "  quite  in  order.  And  that  be- 
ing so,  my  dear  child,  I  venture  to  say  it  is  all 
the  more  to  be  regretted  that  you  chose  to  run 
counter  to  my  expressed  wishes  and  expose 
yourself  to  so  serious  a  loss  in  life — all  for  the 
sake  of  a  wretched  woman  who  turns  out,  after 
all,  to  have  been  wholly  unrelated  to  you  ! " 

"  I  did  what  I  thought  my  duty,"  I  replied 
stoutly. 

'•  Views  of  duty  differ.  They  differ — funda- 
mentally. However,  I  do  not  wish  to  enlarge 
upon  that  debatable  subject.  I  am  no  longer 
your  guardian.  Day  before  yesterday,  you 
may  recollect,  you  attained  your  twenty-first 
birthday." 

In  the  turmoil  of  those  times  I  had  quite 
overlooked  it. 

'•  I  come  now,"  John  continued,  a  little  un- 


344 


Rosalba 


easily,  in  his  civil,  mechanical  voice,  "at  this 
unaccustomed  hour,  to  discuss  your  future. 
When  you  started  for  Dijon,  you  clearly  un- 
derstood, I  believe,  the  seriousness,  the  ir- 
revocability of  the  step  you  were  taking.  I 
explained  it  in  full  to  you." 

"You  did,  John;  and  I  accepted  your  inti- 
mation." 

"  You  realise,  then,  that  our  engagement  is 

at  an  et  d?" 

"  I  realise  It  altogether.  I  acquiesce  in 
your  decision.  Our  compact,  I  think,  was  an 
error  from  the  first ;  this  episode  has  supplied 
us  with  a  convenient  occasion  for  retreating 
from  what  was  for  both  of  us  an  untenable 
position."  Somehow,  one  could  not  talk  long 
to  John  without  dropping  by  degrees  into  his 
ofificial  manner. 

He  looked  pleased  at  my  submissiveness. 
The  corners  of  his  rigid  mouth  relaxed.  "  I 
am  glad  you  recognise  that,"  he  said,  twisting 
a  button.  "It  was,  as  you  say,  an  error  for 
both  of  us.  I  regard  it  as  a  mistake  for  a  man 
to  marry  out  of  that  circle  in  life — you  under- 
stand my  meaning.  I  regard  it  as  a  mistake 
for  a  woman  to  attempt  to  rise,  or  to  be  arti- 
ficially raised,  above  that  class  for  which  na- 


A  Transference  of  Feeling        345 


;al  voice,  "at  this 
cuss  your  future, 
n,  you  clearly  un- 
iriousness,  the  ir- 
.1  were  taking.     I 

ccepted  your  inti- 

)ur  engagement  is 

I  acquiesce  in 
ct,  I  think,  was  an 
isode  has  supplied 
ion  for  retreating 
f  us  an  untenable 
:ould  not  talk  long 
jy  degrees  into  his 

ny  submissiveness. 
louth  relaxed.  "  I 
,"  he  said,  twisting 
1  say,  an  error  for 
L  mistake  for  a  man 
in  life — you  under- 
ird  it  as  a  mistake 
rise,  or  to  be  arti- 
:lass  for  which  na- 


ture intended  her.  I  had  seen  this  for  long ; 
but  the  sense  that  I  was  indebted  to  you — had 
put  myself  under  an  implied  obligation  to 
marry  you,  by  educating  you  above  your  natu- 
ral level — prevented  me  from  endeavouring  to 
break  off  what  I  was  beginning  to  consider  a 
one-sided  arrangement." 

"Very  one-sided,"  I  gasped,  for  the  first 
time  realising  that  while  I  had  been  bent  on 
sacrificing  myself  on  John's  account,  John  had 
been  bent  on  sacrificing  himself  on  mine. 
"  Continue.  I  follow  you."  I  dropped  once 
more  into  his  stilted  manner. 

"You  are  good  enough  to  acquiesce.  That 
renders  my  task  easier."  He  crossed  his  legs, 
and  gazed  fixedly  at  his  yellow-striped  socks. 
"  You  will  understand  that  after  what  has  hap- 
pened our  marriage  becomes  impossible.  You 
chose — I  will  not  say  to  disobey  me,  for  you 
are  no  longer  my  ward,  and  I  speak  to 
you  now  as  adult  to  adult — but  to  disregard  my 
strongly  expressed  wishes.  Considering  what 
I  have  done  for  you,  I  look  upon  that  conduct 
as  equivalent  to  breaking  off  our  engagement. 
It  ts  broken  off.  Is  that  understood  between 
us?" 

"Absolutely,"  I   answered,   quivering,  and 


346 


Rosalba 


biting  my  lip  hard.  John  saw  me  and  misun- 
derstood ;  I  think  he  thought  I  was  suffering 
acutely  from  disappointed  ambition.  I  have 
remarked  that  he  is  a  man  who  lacks  emotional 
subtlety. 

•'  That  is  well,"  he  went  on,  trying  his  best 
to  let  me  down  gently.  "  I  am  glad  that  you 
recognise  it.  Buc,  at  the  same  time,  Rosalba, 
I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  am  not  angry 
with  you.  Not  angry  ;  do  not  let  us  dissolve 
this  engagement  in  anger.  We  part  good 
friends — so  far  as  we  part — do  we  not  ?  " 

"John,"  I  said,  taking  his  hand,  "you  have 
always  been  kindness  and  generosity  itself  to 
me.  How  could  I  part  as  anything  but  a  friend 
from  anyone  who  had  shown  me  such  inv^iri- 
able  goodness  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Rosalba,"  he  replied,  clearing 
his  throat.  "  I  rejoice  to  find  my  action  is  not 
misunderstood.  But  we  could  not  be  happy 
together  in  married  life  ;  and  recognising  that 
fact,  it  is  lucky  that  we  recognise  it  before,  not 
after,  marriage.  Now,  as  to  your  future,  my 
dear  girl.  I  have  incurred  obligations  towards 
you,  I  admit,  by  raising  you  into  a  station  in 
life  for  which  you  were  not— er— originally 
fitted.      In  doing  this,  I  may  have  done  right, 


A  Transference  of  Feeling        347 


V  me  and  misun- 

I  was  suffering 

ibition.      I  have 

D  lacks  emotional 

I,  trying  his  best 
im  glad  that  you 
le  time,  Rosalba, 
t  I  am  not  angry 
ot  let  us  dissolve 
We   part   good 

0  we  not  ?  " 
hand,  "  you  have 
merosity  itself  to 
thing  but  a  friend 

1  me  such  inviri- 

;  replied,  clearing 
i  my  action  is  not 
lid  not  be  happy 
1  recognising  that 
nise  it  before,  not 
)  your  future,  my 
^ligations  towards 
into  a  station  in 
Dt — er — originally 
f  have  done  right. 


or  I  may  have  done  wrong ;  but,  at  any  rate, 
I  have  done  it,  and  I  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. I  take  them  gladly.  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  marry  you  ;  but  as  that  will  throw  you 
on  your  own  resources  without  a  means  of 
livelihood  " — unflinching  rectitude  accentuated 
his  chin — "  I  propose  to  make  you  an  allow- 
ance of— a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  as  long 
as  you  remain  unmarried." 

"  John,"  I  exclaimed,  taken  aback  at  his  real 
munificence,  "that  is  too  kind,  too  generous 
of  you  !  I  have  no  right  at  all  to  expect  any- 
thing of  the  kind,  and  I  cannot " 

"My  dear  Rosalba,"  he  ans./ered,  brighten- 
ing up  and  glowing  with  kindliness,  "  it  is  the 
merest  justice.  Anything  else  would  be  wrong 
of  me.  I  educate  you  for  a  special  purpose 
which  you  cannot  fulfil.  By  your  own  act 
firsi,  but  by  mutual  consent  afterwards,  our 
bargain  is  rescinded.  That  closes  the  ac- 
count, on  the  score  of  marriage.  But  that 
score  is  not  all.  There  still  remains  the  fact 
that  I  have  educated  you  for  a  post  in  life 
which  incapacitates  you  from  returning  to 
your  primitive  condition.  You  have  now  no 
natural  place  in  the  world.  You  mzg-/i^  go  out 
as  a  governess.     You  m/g/i^  take  one  of  the 


348 


Rosalba 


1 


clerkly  posts,  as  secretary,  libra,  ian,  or  s.  lorth, 
now  so  frequently — an.l  .  o  .viseiy — ihrown 
open  tc  women.  You  might  marry.  With 
your  opportunities  at  Linda's  and  your  excel- 
lent education,  chances  of  marriajTc  still  lie 
open  before  you.  But  all  those  are  contin- 
gencies. I  am  bound  to  atone  for  my  original 
error.  I  therefore  propose  to  allow  you,  as  I 
said,  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year  while  you 
remain  unmarried." 

I  rose,  very  flushed.  "  John,"  I  said,  falter- 
ing, "  you  misunderstand.  I  am  a  proud  wo- 
man. You  misconceive  my  nature.  I  owe 
you  a  great  deal.  I  owe  you  in  one  sense 
more  than  I  can  ever  repay  you.  You  have 
been  extremely  good  to  me  ;  you  have  behaved 
to  me  with  kindness  which  I  shall  always  re- 
member. But,  in  another  sense,  I  owe  you 
directly  all  that  you  have  expended  on  my 
education,  and — I  mean  to  repay  it." 

'•  My  dear  child,  how  can  you  ?  Do  not 
talk  chimerically.  You  have  no  money,  and  I 
fear  you  do  not  realise  how  hard  it  is  to  earn 
any." 

"Mariana  can  earn  it,"  I  answered;   "and 

so  can  I." 

"  Nature  endowed  Mariana  with  a  splendid 


! 


i.ian,  ors(  iorth, 
tviseiy — thrown 
/  marry.  With 
and  your  excel- 
narriajTe  still  lie 
hose  are  coutin- 
e  for  my  original 

0  allow  you,  as  I 
year  while   you 

m,"  I  said,  falter- 

am  a  proud  wo- 

nature.      I   owe 

ou  in  one  sense 

you.     You  have 

^ou  have  behaved 

[  shall  always  re- 

ense,  I  owe  you 

expended  on  my 

ipay  It. 

1  you  ?     Do  not 
no  money,  and  I 

hard  it  is  to  earn 

answered ;   "  and 
a  with  a  splendid 


J 


A  Transference  of  Feeling        349 

artistic  p-ifr— her  voice  ;  and  she  has  seconded 
it  by  a  technical  training  in  music." 

"  I  waive  that  question,"  I  went  on.  "  Let 
that  stand  over.  I  owe  you  this  money,  and  I 
mean  to  repay  it.  I  mean  to  repay  it,  to  the 
very  last  farthing.  But  let  us  leave  it  aside 
for  the  present.  I  will  only  speak  now  about 
this  unexpected  offer  of  yours.  Believe  -.,  ^ 
appreciate  the  reasons  that  lead  you  t'-'  iual 
it — your  sense  of  justice,  your  instinct  ^i  j.  Miei  ■ 
osity.  But  I  must  absolutely  decl"  -  it.  I 
shall  earn  my  own  living — of  that  1  ai  not 
afraid — and  I  shall  earn  enough  to  na"  you 
in  full.  Therefore,  from  my  heart  I  laauk  you 
for  this  as  for  all  your  past  kindness ;  but  I 
distinctly,  definitely,  and  finally  refuse  to  avail 
myself  of  your  thoughtful  munificence." 

He  gazed  at  me  uneasily.  "  I  hope,"  he  in- 
terposed, "you  don't  say  this  under  the  im- 
pression that — that  by  your  future  conduct 
you  may  perhaps  induce  me  to  rescind  my  de- 
termination. I  ought  to  tell  you  plainly  that 
our  engagement  is  broken  off,  once  for  all,  and 
will  not  be  renewed." 

I  drew  back  as  if  he  had  stung  me.  "  John," 
I  cried,  with  a  sudden  revulsion,  "  you  insult 
me!" 


350 


Rosalba 


He  saw  he  had  gone  too  far,  and  he  was 
profusely   apologetic.      "But    in    order    that 
there  may  be  no  mistake,"  he  went  on,  in  his 
Grandisonian     way,    though    evidently    awk- 
ward, "I  — I   think  I   ought  to  apprise   you 
at  once   of   a  slight  event  which  took  place 
during  your  absence  from  England.     I  believe 
—  I    may   say    I   believe  —  in    the   policy   of 
striking  while  the  iron  is  hot."     He  sat  un- 
easily.    Crossed  his  legs.      Uncrossed  them. 
Fingered  his  hat.      Fumbled  about  through 
several  unimportant  sentences.  At  last,  plunged 
and  said  it.     "I  had  long  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion, Rosalba,  that  you  and  I  were  not  natu- 
rally  adapted   for  each   other.      I    had  long 
admired  the  classical  beauty  and  the  trained 
intellect  of  another  lady.     But  honour  inter- 
vened.    I  had  given  you  my  word  and  would 
not  retract  it.     When  you  quitted  me,  in  op- 
position to  my  expressed  wishes,  however,  I 
felt  that  honour  need  intervene  no  longer.     I 
asked— and   obtained—"      He  plunged   once 
more.      "I  am  engaged  to  be  married;   this 
time  the  ceremony  is  to  take  place  at  once— 
as  soon,  that  is  to  say,  as  the  necessary  ar- 
rangements can  be  completed— such  arrange- 
ments as  are  needful  for  a  lady  in  my  future 


A  Transference  of  Feeling       35' 


far,  and  he  was 

in    order    that 

e  went  on,  in  his 

evidently    awk- 

to  apprise  you 
vhich  took  place 
gland.  I  believe 
n  the  policy  of 
ot."  He  sat  un- 
Uncrossed  them, 
d  about  through 
5.  At  last,  plunged 
me  to  the  conclu- 

I  were  not  natu- 
er.  I  had  long 
J  and  the  trained 
But  honour  inter- 
y  word  and  would 
quitted  me,  in  op- 
'ishes,  however,  I 
ene  no  longer.  I 
He  plunged   once 

be  married;  this 
:e  place  at  once — 

the  necessary  ar- 
ed — such  arrange- 

lady  in  my  future 


wife's  position."  He  made  a  rhetofHcal  pause. 
"I  am  about  to  marry  —  Miss  Gwendoline 
Duddleswell — I  need  hardly  say,  the  daughter 
of  a  Cabinet  Minister." 

I  seized  both  his  hands  with  sincere  delight. 
If  only  he  knew  what  a  load  he  had  taken  off 
my  mind  !  I  felt  as  Isaac  must  have  felt  when 
the  ram,  caught  by  the  horns  in  the  thicket, 
appeared  to  Abraham.  "John,"  I  cried  in  a 
voice  whose  heartiness  was  too  unfeigned  for 
any  doubt  to  exist  as  to  its  genuine  character, 
"  I  am  so  glad  !  Miss  Duddleswell !  I  con- 
gratulate you  ! " 

He  bloomed  into  geniality.  "  Thank  you, 
Rosalba,"  he  answered,  wringing  my  hand  in 
return.  "  It  is  nice  of  you  to  receive  this  news 
in  so  friendly  a  spirit." 

"  John,"  I  exclaimed  with  conviction,  as  the 
fitness  of  the  substitution  dawned  by  degrees 
upon  me,  "  she  is  the  very  wife  for  you  !  You 
could  not  have  selected  better.  Your  chosen 
bride  is  a  lady  ;  she  is  educated  ;  she  is  intel- 
lectual ;  she  is  extremely  well  read  ;  she  inter- 
ests herself  in  your  problems  ;  she  sympathises 
with  your  aims  ;  she  moves  in  your  own  circle. 
If  I  had  been  asked  to  choose  out  of  all  the 
world  the  exact  help  that  was  meet  for  you,  I 


352 


Rosalba 


think  I  should  have  said,  '  Why.  Gwendoline 
Duddleswell  ! '  In  the  wise  provision  of  Provi- 
dence, she  was  made  for  you." 

He  was  really  charmed.  He  shook  my  hand 
once  more.  "  Rosalba,"  he  cried,  unbending, 
"  this  only  shows  me  again  what  I  knew  long 
ago,  that  in  spite  of  much  flightiness  of  speech 
and  manner,  your  judgment  is  excellent  and 
your  heart  sound  to  the  core.  You  are  totally 
free  from  the  faintest  tinge  of  petty  feminine 
or  feline  jealousy." 

"  I  hope  so  !  "  I  answered. 

"  And  remember,"  smoothing  his  hat,  and 
pulling  on  one  glove,  *'  if  ever  you  want  that 
hundred  and  fifty " 

I  accompanied  him  to  the  door.  "Dear 
John!"  I  answered,  "you  are  most  good  and 
kind.  I  know  you  mean  it  well.  But  for  my 
sake,  I  implore  you,  never  allude  again  to  that 
unhappy  offer.  T  is  generosity  itself— but  it 
grates  like  a  discord." 

Auntie  said  to  me  later,  "  Rosalba,  't  is  a 
slight  upon  you!  He  might  at  least  have 
waited,  for  decency's  sake,  another  week  or 
two,  before  announcing  his  engagement." 

"  Oh  no,  dearie ! "  I  cried.     "  That  is  just 


A  Transference  of  Feeling       353 


/hy,  Gwendoline 
revision  of  Provi- 

c  shook  my  hand 
cried,  unbending, 
^hat  I  knew  long 
rhtiness  of  speech 
is  excellent  and 
,  You  are  totally 
of  petty  feminine 


John's  nature.  He  has  a  need  for  afifections  : 
diluted,  milk-and-watery  affections,  but  still 
affections.  They  saturate  an  affinity.  One 
object  being  withdrawn,  he  immediately  re- 
quires another  on  which  to  fix  them.  When 
one  canary  in  a  cage  dies,  its  mate  mourns — 
till  you  introduce  a  fresh  companion.  Then  it 
perks  up  again  and  is  happy.  John  is  at  the 
canary  stage  of  the  tender  emotions." 


'3 


ling  his  hat,  and 
rer  you  want  that 

he  door.  "  Dear 
•e  most  good  and 
well.  But  for  my 
llude  again  to  that 
3sity  itself — but  it 


"  Rosalba,   't  is  a 
ght  at  least  have 

another  week  or 
engagement." 
;d.     "  That  is  just 


I 


CHAPTER  XXV 


I    TEST    MY    MARKET   VALUE 

I  HAD  to  earn  my  living. 
I  faced  the  situation,  like  a  man— or  at 

least  like  a  woman. 

Auntie  pressed  me  hard  to  marry  Dudu  at 
once.  To  this  course  I  saw  one  fatal  objec- 
tion—Dudu  had  not  asked  me.  Besides,  I 
could  not  marry  him.  I  owed  John  Stodmarsh 
too  much  ;  and  I  meant  to  repay  him.  I  would 
decide  on  nothing  which  did  not  enable  me  to 
earn  my  own  livelihood  and  leave  a  surplus 
sufficient  to  save  up  for  that  repayment. 
Otherwise,  it  would  have  been  beyond  doubt  a 
most  suitable  match  ;  for  we  had  neither  of  us 

a  penny.  _ 

I  turned  things  over  in  my  mmd  this  way 
and  that  during  those  days  at  Auntie's.  I  was 
further  off  from  earning  money  now  than  m 
the  dim  past  years  when  I  danced  and  played 

354 


cxv 

T   VALUE 

like  a  man — or  at 

to  marry  Dudu  at 
iw  one  fatal  objec- 
d  me.  Besides,  I 
;d  John  Stodmarsh 
epayhim.  I  would 
d  not  enable  me  to 
id  leave  a  surplus 
r  that  repayment. 
;en  beyond  doubt  a 
e  had  neither  of  us 

my  mind  this  way 

at  Auntie's.    I  was 

money  now  than  in 

danced  and  played 


I  Test  my  Market  Value         355 

on  dusty  French  highways.  How  the  sous 
rolled  in  !  Day  by  day  it  dawned  upon  me 
more  and  more  clearly  that  Miss  Westmacott's 
"  toning  down  "  had  been  a  fatal  error.  My 
chance  in  life  lay,  not  in  "  toning  down,"  but  in 
tuning  up ;  I  ought  to  have  developed  my 
natural  talenis  (if  any)  along  my  natural  lines. 
Nature  had  endowed  me  with  certain  gifts  of 
sprightliness  and  mimicry  which  1  loved  to 
exercise ;  John  Stodmarsh  and  Miss  Westma- 
cott  had  conspired  to  dwarf  them. 

But  they  had  not  wholly  succeeded.  They 
tried  a  task  beyond  their  strength.  Turned 
out  at  the  door,  art  came  back  by  the  window. 
Clandestinely  and  surreptitiously  I  had  gone 
on  playing  my  little  plays  before  the  girls  and 
delivering  my  speeches.  Auntie  and  Dudu 
had  encouraged  me  in  the  holidays.  I  loved 
dressing  up  ;  I  loved  attitudinising.  John  did 
not  care  for  me  to  go  to  the  theatre  ;  he  said 
it  "  tended  to  unsettle  me  " ;  like  all  his  kind, 
John  had  always  a  strange  dread  of  that  mys- 
terious entity,  unsettlement.  But  Auntie  took 
me  to  the  play  from  time  to  time ;  it  was  an 
epoch  in  my  life  when  first  I  saw  a  real  Juliet 
in  a  real  balcony,  and  beheld  a  Romeo  in 
trunk  hose  actually  climbing  up  a  real  paste- 


356 


Rosalba 


board  wall  to  embrace  her.     I  went  away  very 
much  "unsettled."     I  pined  to  play  Juliet  to 
crowded  houses  offhand.      For  when  a  girl 
says  she  "  wants  to  go  on  the  stage,"  she  does 
not  mean  she  wants  to  begin,  as  begin  she 
must,  in  the  rdle  of  walking  lady ;  she  means 
she  wants  to  begin  as  Mrs.  Siddons  in  Lady 
Macbeth,  or  as  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  La  Tosca. 
The  theatre  was  my  first  love.     Had  I  not 
evolved  it  for  myself,  "  antecedently  of  experi- 
ence," as  the  psychology-books  say,  from  a 
tattered   Shakespeare   on   the  Monti  Berici? 
But  I  did  not  now  contemplate  going  on  the 
stage,  for  all  that.     I  had  re?sons  for  this  re- 
solve ;  among  them,  one  was  that  preparation 
for  the  stage  costs  time  and  money.     Now  I 
wanted  to  economise  time,  because  I  wanted 
to  begin  repaying  John  Stodmarsh  what  I  owed 
him.     And  I  had  no  money.     So,  on  various 
grounds,  I  rejected  the  theatre. 

But  on  the  very  morning  after  my  interview 
with  John,  and  the  decided  snapping  of  that 
unlucky  engagement,  I  went  out  by  myself— 
in  search  of  another.  I  had  a  scheme  in  my 
mind.  It  may  have  been  a  foolish  one ;  but, 
at  any  rate,  it  amused  me,  To  be  amused  is 
surely  a  great  point  in  this  dull  world,  where 


I  Test  my  Market  Value         357 


I  went  away  very 
to  play  Juliet  to 
For  when  a  girl 
e  stage,"  she  does 
rin,  as  begin  she 
lady ;  she  means 
Siddons  in  Lady 
ardt  in  La  Tosca. 
love.     Had  I  not 
:edently  of  experi- 
)oks  say,  from  a 
he  Monti  Berici? 
(late  going  on  the 
e?sons  for  this  re- 
,s  that  preparation 
d  money.     Now  I 
because  I  wanted 
marsh  what  I  owed 
y.     So,  on  various 
itre. 

after  my  interview 
I  snapping  of  that 
It  out  by  myself — 
d  a  scheme  in  my 
a,  foolish  one ;  but, 
To  be  amused  is 
i  dull  world,  where 


so  many  adverse  forces — social,  religious,  pe- 
cuniary— seem  banded  together  in  one  solid 
phalanx  to  prevent  our  enjoying  ourselves. 

I  took  a  'bus  into  the  Strand — or  rather, 
two  successive  'bi,  if  that  is  the  proper  plural 
— and  went  to  call  on  a  famous  music-hall 
proprietor, 

"  A  music-hall !  "  you  cry.  "  Oh,  this  is 
really  too  much  !  The  moment  she  escapes 
from  that  excellent  Mr.  Stodmarsh's  restrain- 
ing influence,  what  appalling  developments 
may  we  not  expect  from  this  Bohemian  young 
woman  ?  " 

Wait  till  you  hear.  'T  is  a  lesson  this  book 
is  bent  on  impressing  upon  you. 

Mr.  Henry  Burminster  is  a  very  famous 
man.  He  has  controlled  in  his  time  half  the 
music-halls  of  London.  He  is  short,  fat,  more 
than  middle-aged,  somewhat  unctuous.  Not 
red-faced  —  a  worse  type,  white  and  flabby, 
with  parboiled  cheeks  :  a  sated  sensualist.  In- 
numerable crows-feet  pucker  the  corners  of 
his  deep-set  eyes  ;  the  eyes  themselves  twinkle 
with  humour,  but  convey  strange  undertones 
of  shrewdness,  of  worldly  wisdom,  of  hard, 
business-like  cruelty.  The  sort  of  man  to  en- 
joy a  good  dinner  and  run  a  show  which  uses 


358 


Rosalba 


up  its  arftsies— that  is  the  accepted  word— 
with  ruthless  rapidity.  Each  takes  his  "  turn  "  ; 
and  after  a  few  "  turns "  his  vogue  is  over. 
Mr.  Burminster  uses  them  up  as  omnibus  com- 
panies use  horses ;  and  when  they  are  done 
for,  no  doubt  ships  them  over  to  Antwerp  to 
be  slaughtered. 

His  Obesity  received  me  at  once  in  a  cosy 
little  study,  half  smoking-room,  half  office,  with 
just  a  tinge  of  boudoir.     Its  odour  vacillated 
between  Turkish  cigarettes  and  patchouli.^    He 
had  received  my  card  ;  but  I  do  not  think  't  was 
that  that   secured  me    admission  ;  the   door- 
keeper, I  fancy,  had  been  pleased  to  be  gra- 
cious as  to  my  external  fitness  for  the  musical 
profession.     (I  call  it  musical  by  courtesy,  not 
knowing  the  appropriate  adjective  for  music- 
hall.)     Mr.  Burminster  leaned  back  in  a  capa- 
cious desk-chair,  which  (at  some  risk  to  itself) 
revolved  on  a  pivot  with   his  bulky  person. 
His  waist  was  convexity  ;  an  obtrusive  diamond 
accentuated  his  fat  fingers.     He  stared  at  me 
frankly ;  but  there  was  nothing   rude  in  his 
stare:  to  a  great  contractor  in  human  flesh 
and  blood  a  singer  or  a  dancer  is  just  so  much 
stock-in-trade  ;  he  examines  her  points,  not  as 
person,  but  as  saleable  commodity.    "  Will  she 


\.. 


iccepted  word — 
Lakes  his  "  turn  "  ; 
s  vogue  is  over, 
as  omnibus  com- 
n  ihey  are  done 
zr  to  Antwerp  to 

at  once  in  a  cosy 
n,  half  office,  with 
t  odour  vacillated 
id  patchouli.    He 

10  not  think  't  was 
ission  ;  the  door- 
leased  to  be  gra- 
ss for  the  musical 

11  by  courtesy,  not 
Ijective  for  music- 
^d  back  in  a  capa- 
ome  risk  to  itself) 
his  bulky  person, 
obtrusive  diamond 

He  stared  at  me 
thing  rude  in  his 
ir  in  human  flesh 
:er  is  just  so  much 

her  points,  not  as 
nodity.    "Will  she 


I  Test  my  Market  Value         359 

or  will  she  not  suit  my  public  ?  " — that  is  the 
question.  Of  women  as  women  he  has  seen 
more  than  enough  ;  they  do  not  interest  him. 
Mr.  Burminster  had  declined  on  dinners,  wine, 
and  Carlsbad. 

I  felt  as  much  in  the  scrutinising  glance  with 
which  he  ran  me  up  and  down,  and  did  not  re- 
sent it. 

"  In  the  profession  ?"  he  asked  at  last,  in  a 
fat  cracked  voice,  as  unctuous  as  the  face  of 
him. 

"Not  yet.     I  may  be." 

"  You  may  be  ?  So  ?  What  qualifications, 
young  lady?" 

"  innocence  first,"  I  answered,  taking  my 
cue  from  his  style.  "That,  you  see,  is  a 
novelty." 

The  crow's-feet  puckered  still  closer ;  the 
corners  of  the  mouth  twitched  with  a  curious 
motion.  "  That— is— true,"  His  Obesity  mused 
slowly.  "  So  far — good.  And  next,  combined 
with  it  ?  " 

"  Audacity.     A  rare  combination  ! " 

"  Right  again.  You  hit  it  in  one.  An}  ng 
else?" 

"  Mimicry." 

The  swinging  chair  swung  round.     The  dis- 


360 


Rosalba 


1 


pcnser  of  wealth  surveyed  me  once  more  from 
hat  to  shoe  with  a  most  purchasing  stare. 
•'  You  i)iit  it  short,"  he  commented.  "  You  do 
not  waste  words.  Most  young  women  who 
come  here  on  hire  bore  one  with  the  exuber- 
ance of  their  vokible  self-assertion.  They  have 
all  the  virtues— as  understood  on  the  music- 
hall  stage— and  they  expatiate  on  them  like 
Hamlet  soliloquising.  Innocence— audacity 
—mimicry.     Well,  well.     Experience?" 

"  None,"  I  answered.  "  In  its  place,  fresh- 
ness, originality,  utter  freedom  from  conven- 
tion." 

"  Trained  ?  " 

"  Self-trained.    Taught  myself  to  act,^  tramp- 
ing the  highroads  of  France  and  Italy." 
"  So  !     Educated  on  the  Continent ! " 
^^And  at  a  High  School  for  girls  in  Hamp- 

stead." 

"  Aha !     A  new  woman  !  " 

•'  Do  I  look  like  an  old  one  ?  " 

He  pursed  his  lips,  set  his  teeth,  or  at  least 
his  jaws,  half  closed  the  sleepy,  shifty  fat  eyes, 
and  once  more  took  stock  of  me.  "  My  time 
is  valuable,"  he  said  at  last,  plagiarising  Alice. 
"  A  hundred  pounds  a  minute." 

"  That  is  why  I  came  to  you,"  I  answered. 


I  Test  my  Market  Value         361 


le  once  more  from 
purchasing   stare, 
nented.    "  You  do 
3ung  women  who 
e  with  the  exuber- 
ertion.    They  have 
ood  on  the  music- 
iate  on  them  Hke 
nocence — audacity 
experience?" 
In  its  place,  fresh- 
dom  from  conven- 


lyself  to  act,  tramp- 
g  and  Italy." 
Continent ! " 
for  girls  in  Hamp- 


ne  t 

lis  teeth,  or  at  least 
:epy,  shifty  fat  eyes, 
of  me.  "  My  time 
;,  plagiarising  Alice, 
ute. 
0  you,"  I  answered. 


"  I  knew  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  offer  you  a 
good  thing  ;  and  the  man  with  capital  is  the 
man  to  put  a  good  thing  on  the  market."  I 
said  it  with  the  emphatic,  jerky,  convinced  air 
of  men  in  the  City,  whom  I  had  often  heard 
talk  about  something  called  Founders'  Shares 
at  Auntie's  and  Sir  Hugh  Tachbrooks. 

"That's  good!"  he  broke  in,  waking  up. 
"Any  more  like  it  ?" 

"  Plenty  more  where  that  cum  from,"  I  an- 
swered, transforming  myself  at  once  into  the 
person  of  a  'bus-conductor.  "  Now  then,  old 
'un,  git  on!  — Off  side  down.  Bill!  — 'Ere 
y'  are,  mum  !     Westmin-ister  ! " 

"  Ha  !  quick-change  artiste,  wilr-^at  the  cos- 
tume," he  exclaimed,  catching  at  it.  His 
crafty  eyes  gave  a  twinkle  which  said  as  clear 
as  words,  "There  may  be  money  in  her.  In- 
vestigate, but  don't  let  her  think  you  think  so." 
He  grew  sleepier  than  ever,  and  lighted  a 
lazy  cigarette.  "  Let  me  see  what  you  can 
do,"  he  drawled  out,  glancing  at  the  heavy 
watch  on  his  desk.  "  I  have  ten  minutes  I  can 
spare.     I  assign  you  ten  minutes." 

"  One  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  that  valua- 
ble time  !  "  I  cried.  "  Can't  you  let  me  have 
it  in  money  ?  " 


3*8 


Rosalba 


He  smiled  a   restrained  smile.      "  Go  on ! 
go  on  !     No  tomfoolery  ! " 

I  went  on,  suppressing  the  tomfoolery  as 
requested.  I  gave  him  in  quick  succession 
several  of  my  little  dramatic  impersonations, 
as  I  had  given  them  often  before  with  great 
applause  to  the  girls  at  school  or  to  Auntie 
and  Dudu.  I  passed  from  one  sketch  to  the 
other  hastily,  without  note  or  comment.  Some 
of  my  "  turns  "  were  monologues  ;  others,  bat- 
tles of  repartee  between  two  contrasted  speak- 
ers. Mr.  Burminster  leaned  back  torpid  in  his 
chair  and  pretended  to  close  his  eyes ;  but  I 
knew  through  the  eyelids — for  he  had  no 
lashes — he  was  watching  me,  cat-like.  At  last 
His  Obesity  rose  with  an  effort  and  opened 
the  door.  "  Mr.  Weldon,  come  in  and  hear 
this  young  lady." 

"  Another  thousand  ! "  I  murmured.  "  You 
see,  I  was  right.  Et  pi-ti-ti,  et  pa-ta-ta!  I 
told  you  this  was  money." 

He  looked  a  little  annoyed.  "  Proceed,"  he 
said,  waving  one  fat  unimpressive  hand.  "  Wel- 
don, observe  her." 

Mr.  Weldon,  who  was  a  foxy  man  vith  thin 
upright  red  hair  standing  off  from  his  forehead 
at  an  obtuse  angle,  did  as  he  was  bid  and  ob- 


I  Test  my  Market  Value         363 


smile. 


Go  on ! 


he  tomfoolery  as 
quick  succession 
c  impersonations, 
before  with  great 
lool  or  to  Auntie 
one  sketch  to  the 
r  comment.  Some 
igues  ;  others,  bat- 
I  contrasted  speak- 
i  back  torpid  in  his 
se  his  eyes ;  but  I 
I — for  he  had  no 
;,  cat-like.  At  last 
effort  and  opened 
:ome  in  and  hear 

nurmured.  "  You 
■H,  et  pa-ta-ta!     I 

d.  "  Proceed,"  he 
ssive  hand.    "  Wel- 

Foxy  man  vith  thin 
f  from  his  forehead 
le  was  bid  and  ob- 


served me.  My  devil  was  well  in  hand  that 
morning.  I  put  him  through  his  paces,  and  he 
positively  astonished  me  by  the  quickness  and 
variety  of  his  fantastic  sallies.  He  gaped  and 
grinned  ;  he  imitated  to  the  life  ;  he  made  foxy 
Mr.  Weldon  laugh  aloud  in  spite  of  himself. 
I  grew  wild  with  my  own  fun.  I  broke  out  in 
full  flood  like  the  Adda  when  it  has  burst  its 
banks.  I  finished,  flushed.  "Whaur's  yer 
Wullie  Shakespeare  noo?"  I  cried  out  as  I 
ended,  striking  an  attitude  of  triumph  based 
on  a  Highland  fling. 

The  manager  checked  the  silent  twitching  of 
his  mouth.  "  Very  excellent  fooling,"  he  ad- 
mitted in  a  tolerant  tone. 

"  Which  is  the  commodity  you  purvey,"  I 
answered,  beaming  on  him. 

Then  both  principals  drew  aside  for  a  mo- 
ment and  conferred.  I  could  see  Mr.  Bur- 
minster  was  for  offering  me  a  very  small  salary 
to  begin  with,  while  Mr.  Weldon  was  for  secur- 
ing me  by  a  larger  bribe. 

At  last.  His  Obesity  came  forward  with  an 
insinuating  look.  "  These  are  funny  sketches," 
he  admitted  grudgingly.  "Very  funny.  I 
believe  you  have  talent  for  the  music-hall 
stage.     But  in  our  profession  it  is  impossible 


3^4 


Rosalba 


to  judge  beforehand  ■  )W  the  public  will  take 
anything.  You  may  be  a  dead  loss.  Will  you 
go  on  and  try — for  six  weeks — at  five 
guineas  ? " 

"  Five  guineas  a  week?"  I  asked  in  a  tone 
of  withering  contempt. 

"  Five  guineas  a  week  ;  three  turns  at  three 
of  my  halls  each  evening." 

"  Six  weeks  ?  Why  six  weeks  for  trial  ? 
One  would  surely  be  enough.  I  will  negotiate 
for  one  week.  But  if  you  want  to  bind  me 
down  in  advance  for  six,  that  shows  you  must 
think  there  is  something  in  me." 

He  blinked  uneasily,  then  glanced  sideways 
with  his  crafty  eyes  at  ferret-faced  Weldon. 
"  Knows  a  thing  or  two,"  he  muttered.  "  In- 
nocence ? — well,  ahem,  good  imitation,  I  call  it." 

"  I  am  perfectly  ready  to  treat  with  you,"  I 
went  on,  in  my  most  business-like  voice,  "  upon 
the  basis  of  a  six  weeks'  agreement,  if  that  is 
what  you  would  like.  But  I  shall  understand 
then  that  you  consider  me  a  sufficiently  safe 
draw  to  be  worth  risking  your  money  upon." 

He  opened  the  sleepy,  shifty  fat  eyes  wide. 
"  What  ?  never  been  on  the  stage  before  ?  "  he 
cried.  "  Well,  for  a  new  hand,  you  seem  to 
know  a  precious  lot  about  it." 


I  Test  my  Market  Value         365 


e  public  will  take 

iad  loss.    Will  you 

weeks — at    five 

I  asked  in  a  tone 

bree  turns  at  three 

weeks  for  trial? 
I.     I  will  negotiate 

want  to  bind  me 
it  shows  you  must 
tne." 

1  glanced  sideways 
rret-faced  Weldon. 
e  muttered.  "In- 
imitation,  I  call  it." 

treat  with  you,"  I 
is-like  voice, "  upon 
^reement,  if  that  is 

I  shall  understand 
:  a  sufficiently  safe 
3ur  money  upon." 
lifty  fat  eyes  wide. 
;  stage  before  ?  "  he 
land,  you  seem  to 


"  General  knowledge,"  I  answered  carelessly 
— "and  business  instinct." 

"  You  put  a  name  to  it.  I  should  say  so. 
Then  we  will  make  an  agreement  for  six  weeks 
at  five  guineas?" 

"Oh  dear  no!"  I  answered,  feeling  sure 
from  his  manner  I  was  worth  more  than  that. 
"  I  said  I  would  treat  with  you  on  the  basis  of 
a  six  weeks'  agreement.  The  term  is  now 
fixed.  We  have  next  to  consider  the  amount 
of  salary.     I  had  thought  twenty  guineas." 

"  Twenty  guineas  !  An  untried  hand  !  Do 
you  want  to  ruin  me?" 

I  looked  His  Obesity  straight  in  the  unctu- 
ous face.  "Mr.  Burminster,"  I  said,  "you 
are  an  old  and  tried  caterer  for  the  public 
taste.  You  and  your  partner  have  heard  me 
for  twenty  minutes — more  or  less — and  are 
anxious  to  engage  me  for  six  weeks  certain. 
Now  I  am  not  a  fool.  I  have  held  private 
audiences  convulsed  with  laughter.  I  held 
your  partner  iust  now ;  I  held  yourself,  though 
you  laughed  internally  with  your  mouth  hardly 
vrinkling.  You  wouldn't  want  me  so  much 
unless  there  were  money  to  be  made  of  me.  I 
propose  to  make  some  part  of  that  money  my- 
self. You  have  capital  and  command  pf  houses ; 


366 


Rosalba 


I  have  not.  You  pocket  your  share ;  1  want 
mine.  I  ask  twenty  guineas.  Take  it,  or 
leave  it." 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  leave  it,"  he 
answered. 

"  Thank  you."  I  said,  rising  to  go.  "  That 
is  clear  and  categorical.  I  will  not  detain  you. 
I  am  sorry  to  have  wasted  two  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  your  valuable  time.  Good 
morning ! " 

He  rose  hastily  in  turn  and  intercepted  me 
with  his  huge  girth  on  my  way  to  the  door. 
"  Look  here ! "  he  cried  with  an  amount  of 
eagerness  that  betrayed  him.  "Where  are 
you  going  ?" 

♦'  To  Kettlebury,  of  course  ! "  He  was  the 
rival  manager. 

"  To  Kettlebury  ?  That  will  never  do.  Stop, 
Miss  !     Wait  a  moment ! " 

"No,  thank  you,"  I  answered.  "You  were 
clear — and  categorical." 

He  blocked  the  doorway.  "  Oh,  but  I  say, 
this  is  forcing  a  man's  hand.  Not  Kettlebury, 
if  you  please.  Is  Kettlebury  the  sort  of  per- 
son to  whom  a  lady  who  respects  herself " 

"  Mr.  Kettlebury  saw  me  a  year  ago  at  a 
children's  entertainment  in  the  East  End  got 


'our  share  ;  1  want 
eas.     Take   it,    or 


.     ••  I  leave  it,"  he 

ing  to  go.  "  That 
yvill  not  detain  you. 
ed  two  thousand 
lable  time.     Good 

ind  intercepted  me 
y  way  to  the  door, 
rith  an  amount  of 
lim.     "Where  are 

•se  ! "     He  was  the 


ill  never  do.    Stop, 


n 


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I  Test  my  Market  Value         3^7 

up  by  my  aunt,   and   it  was   his  encourage- 
ment  " 

"  What,  Kettlebury  has  seen  you  ?  " 
I  bowed  acquiescence. 

"Just  sit  down  there  again !     We  will  dis- 
cuss this  matter." 

"You  let  Cissie  Lloyd  slip  through  your 
fingers,"  ferret-faced  Mr.  Weldon  remarked 
aside,  with  a  warning  look,  running  one  freck- 
led hand  through  his  foxy  hair.  "  Don't  you 
do  it  again ! "  Cissie  Lloyd  was  an  ing^mie 
who  had  burst  like  a  meteor  on  the  music-hall 
horizon,  and  blazed  for  a  season— and  Kettle- 
bury  had  secured  her. 

The  manager  took  up  a  pen.  "What  is 
your  name,  young  lady  ?  Oh,  here,  on  your 
card.  I  didn't  even  look  at  it.  Lupari— 
Lupari  ?  Any  relation  to  the  Lupari  ?  " 
"  In  a  way.  Her  sister." 
"So  ho!  And  the  name  ready  made! — 
Weldon,  how  's  that  ?— Well,  now  let  us  be 

business-like " 

"/was  business-like  before." 
"  Perhaps.     But  I  was  n't.     We  will  be  more 
explicit."     He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 
folded    his   fat   hands,   thumbs,    and    fingers 
together.     "  Young  lady,  you  have  talent." 


368 


Rosalba 


I  dropped  a  saucy  curtsey. 
"  Do  that  again,"  he  cried,  starting.     I  did 
it  again.     He  bit  his  pen  and  watched  me. 

-  Talent  Yes,  talent.  I  do  not  know  its 
money  value,  trust  me,  believe  me,  I  really 
do  not.  But  I  think  it  may  be  great.  In  our 
profession  that  is  the  most  one  can  ever  say. 
It  is  wild  to  plunge.  We  depend  upon  the 
public.  And  the  public  is  a  Hass.^^  That  is 
the  bane  of  music-hall  managership." 

"The  bane  agrees  with  you,"  I  murmured. 
"  You  seem  to  thrive  upon  it.     I  think  you 
must  have  tastes  in  common  with  the  public. 
He  eyed  me  craftily,  sideways,  like  a  parrot. 
It  was  such   an    oblique   compliment.       But 
after  deliberation  he  decided  to  put  the  best 
construction  upon  it.     "  Yes,  that  is  true,    he 
answered.     "  I  have  an  eye,  I  admit  it      You 
satisfy  my  eye.     Therefore-it  is  possible  you 
may  satisfy  the  public." 

We  discussed  the  case  at  some  length— oc 
cupying  I  dare  not  say  how  many  thousands 
of  pounds'  worth  of  that  priceless  commodity, 
Mr.  Burminster's  time ;  and  in  the  end  we 
arrived  at  a  temporary  agreement.  Mr.  Bur- 
minster,  protesting  much,  and  eager  to  escape 
ruin,  contracted  at  last  to  engage   me,  it   1 


I  Test  my  Market  Value         369 


id,  starting.  I  did 
nd  watched  me. 
I  do  not  know  its 
2lieve  me,  I  really 
y  be  great.  In  our 
t  one  can  ever  say. 
e  depend  upon  the 
IS  a  Hass.  That  is 
lagership." 

you,"  I  murmured, 
on  it.  I  think  you 
ion  with  the  public." 
leways,  like  a  parrot. 

compliment.  But 
ided  to  put  the  best 
k^es,  that  is  true,"  he 
ye,  I  admit  it.  You 
[•e — it  is  possible  you 

at  some  length — oc- 

how  many  thousands 

priceless  commodity, 

and  in  the  end  we 

igreement.     Mr.  Bur- 

1,  and  eager  to  escape 

to  engage   me,  if  I 


chose  to  go  on  the  stage,  for  six  weeks  certain, 
at  a  salary  of  twenty  guineas  a  week — "  though 
't  is  gambling,  gambling."     At  the  end  of  that 
six  weeks,  should  the  gamble  succeed,  he  was 
to  have  an  option  of  re-engaging  me  for  an- 
other six  weeks  at  a  salary  of  fifty  guineas. 
I   insisted  on  the  fifty ;  I   believed  I  would  be 
worth  it.     He  fought  hard  for  thirty  ;  I  turned 
the  Kettlebury  screw  once  more  :  it  succeeded. 
After  that  again  he  equally  insisted  on  a  clause 
that  if  any  other  manager  made  me  an  offer 
of  a  still  higher  salarv.  he  was  to  have  the  op- 
tion  of  equalling  it  and  retaining  my  services. 
All  this  was  conditional  upon  my  going  on  the 
music-hall  stage  at  all.     And  for  this  I  had  a 
reason.     On  my  side,  I   bargained  that  (f  I 
went  on  the  stage,  it  would  be  under  Mr.  Bur- 
minster's  management,  and  on  these  conditions. 
That  was  all  we  both  wanted.     Mr.  Burminster 
desired  to  secure  me  against  that  man  Kettle- 
bury.     I  desired  an  agreement  on  paper  guar- 
anteeing me   these  terms — for    a    particular 
purpose. 

Valuable  consideration  passed — a  crisp  five- 
pound  note.  I  crumpled  it  in  my  hand  as  if 
it  were  waste-paper. 

His  Obesity  went  down  to  the  door  with  me 


H 


370  Rosalba 

in  person.  He  saw  me  out  deferentially. 
"Shall  I  send  for  a  hansom?"  he  asked,  his 
fat  fingers  dwelling  on  the  door-handle. 

.'  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  I  answered,  with  one 
of  Mariana  s  sweet  smiles.  "  I 'm  not  going 
far  Only  to  Somerset  House." 
'' Somerset  House  !  What  for?" 
"Why,  to  get  vour  agreement  stamped,  ot 
course."  And  1  gave  him  the  confiding  glance 
of  a  four-year-old  child.  ,  .,       , 

He  opened  the  sleepy,  shifty  fat  eyes  as 
wide  as  possible.  "Innocence!  Innocen^^! 
he  murmured  with  bitter  sarcasm.  And  she 
looks  as  if  butter  would  n't  melt  in  her  mouth  ! 
A  playful  schoolgirl !  '  Somerset  House  to 
cret  your  agreement  stamped '-with  a  bland 
^nd  childlike  smile.  Ought  to  bring  the  nouse 
down  !     Innocence,  quotha,  innocence  ! 


T 


t    deferentially. 
'"  he  asked,  his 
)r-handle. 
wered,  with  one 
'  I  'm  not  going 

e." 

for?" 

iient  stamped,  of 
confiding  glance 

lifty  fat  eyes  as 
ce!  Innocence!" 
:asm.  "  And  she 
elt  in  her  mouth  ! 
Tierset  House  to 
d'— with  a  bland 
o  bring  the  house 
innocence  ! " 


^ 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

I   COME    TO   ANCHOR 

I    HAD  got  my  agreement.     I   proceeded 
to  make-  use  of  it.     I  wanted  it  for  its 
effect  upon  three  people. 

From  Somerset  House  I  drove  straight  (by 
omnibus)  to  Mariana's. 

Mariana,  ever  soft  and  peach-like,  was  seated 
in  her  snuggery,  as  she  called  it,  her  attention 
being  entirely  concentrated  on  certain  altera- 
tions in  a  dainty  flowery  brocaded  dressing- 
gown  which  her  French  maid  was  arranging 
for  her.  T  was  a  sweetly  pretty  brocade- 
sprays  of  pink  roses  on  a  delicate  elusive 
honey-coloured  ground ;  and  Mariana,  who 
loved  the  pomp  of  steward  and  seneschal,  was 
justly  proud  of  it.  '' Bravissima  /  "  she  cried. 
"■  C'est  charmant!" 

I  burst  in  upon  her,  in  a  short  serge  skirt, 
big  with  my  agreement,  but  anxious  to  look  at 

371 


--2  Rosatba 

first  as  if  nothing  out  of  tlie  common  had  hap- 
pened. Mariana,  graciously  smilmg  and  extend- 

fng  one  plump  hand-Mar,anas  wh.te  hands 
l"we  inspired  sonnets-languidlymqmred  how 
dkl-and  whether  1  had  seen  the  cr.ucsm  of 
Marm,erite  in  last  nighfs  SI.  James  .     I  re- 
plied that  I  had  not.     She  selected  >t  out  for 
r  from  a  copious  bundle  of  P-ss  cut  mgs 
on  flimsy  pink  slips;   there  were  at  least  a 
round  doVn  of  them  •.-"  Signora  Lupan  s  re- 
ZrUable  impersonation";  " S'g"- War. s 
unequalled    organ";  "her    child.sh    grace    , 
"her  delicious%inging";  "a  Marguente  as 
guileless  as  Goethe  drew  her."     •  -  7  ^^^^ 
over  it  with  a  sense  of  s.cken.ng.        Ihat 

must  be  the  great  pitfall  of  ^^-^^'^T^X^e. 
agencies"  I  ventured  to  remark.  bo  baa 
agencies,     '  .    „.._or  a  woman 

(or   one  s   vanity  !      A   man 
must  see  all  that  the  newspapers  are  saying 
about  herself,  without  equally  seeing  what  the 
„»r=  are  saving  about  other  people. 
WMcrof  co:::. Xt'tend  to  give  one  a  false 
impression  of  one's  own  relative  importance.^ 
"But  the  criticisms  are  so  often  hostile, 

Mariana  lisped  out  in  her  softly  i"'ant,le  voice 
-Mariana's  childishness  was  par^  of  her  stock 
in-trade-a  valuable   element  of   her  charm. 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


373 


common  had  hap- 
milingandextend- 
ana's  white  hands 
lidly  inquired  how 
en  the  criticism  of 
St.  James  s.  I  re- 
selected  it  out  for 

of  press  cuttings 
e  were  at  least  a 
ignora  Lupari's  re- 
*'  Signora  Lupari's 

childish    grace  "  ; 
"a  Marguerite  as 
er."     I  ran  my  eye 
sickening.     "  That 
■  these  press-cutting 
remark.     "  So  bad 
nan  — or   a  woman 
/spapers  are  saying 
ally  seeing  what  the 
,bout   other   people, 
id  to  give  one  a  false 
relative  importance." 
•e  so  often  hostile," 
softly  infantile  voice 
was  part  of  her  stock- 
ment  of  her  charm, 


most  carefully  cultivated.  "  The  wretches  say 
such  vile  things  !  Oh,  sometimes  they  're  just 
horrid!"  And  she  made  a  wry  face,  as  if 
somebody  had  offered  her  a  draught  of  nasty 
medicine. 

"Still,  the  drawback  to  the  actress's  or 
singer's  profession,"  I  mused  on,  in  an  abstract 
way — "  viewed  as  a  career,  I  mean — must  be 
the  effect  it  has  on  character." 

Mariana  faisait  la  moue—\  am  afraid  there 
is  no  English  for  it,  nor  indeed  for  most  of 
Mariana's  face-play,  "The  effect  it  has  on 
character  !  Oh,  dear  Rosalba,  what  on  earth 
do  you  mean  ?  Why,  do  you  know  you  are 
talking  exactly  like  that  poor  dear  John  of 
yours?  It  must  be  catching.  Effect  upon 
character !  What  a  comical  idea ! "  And  she 
laughed  her  musical   little  laugh  of  disdain. 

"  As  if  one  went  upon  the  stage  for  its  effect 

upon  character ! " 

"When  I  see  the  influence  the  stage  has 

upon  some  actors  and  actresses,"    I  went  on 

calmly,  "  it  makes  me  almost  decide  for  myself 

— to  keep  off  it." 

"  That  's  easily  done,  dear.     It  's  one  of  the 

simplest  professions  to  keep  out  of  in  the  world. 

— Elise,  mon  enfant,   would  you   make   this 


„A  Rosalba 

374 

1    .  •     4.  o  cion'irion  of  a  camisole — 
bodice  so  that  just  a  ;"^P'^'°"  "  ^.^^ged  cami- 
a  dainty  little  coquet  e  o    a  ^^^^^''^         j^^ 
sole-should  peep  out  at  the  neck  f     v. 
fa  V.     cJne  ..-don't  you  ^^.^^ 

"Then  vou  seriously  advisL  i«t.  lo 
the  Ita^e^l  went  on,  fingering  the  brocade 

^";?T"!'decUne,t?    My  dear  girl,  who  invited 

^°"nfave°aianpting  offer,"  1  angered. 
M  rt:  t-h^  V-'shaped  bodice  d^p-m 

her  caressing  fingers,  ='"'1  "«"^f ,  ^f/X'n 
o,  startled  -n^rise.  wh,ch  w^,.d  have^be^,^ 

«orth  "o-y  ■"  ^J"-.,  Rl°b,  ,     How  dis- 
t^  it  st'in.a,ny-an  infamy !    To 
f^lfupon  n,y  "- and  an.t-^^^^^^^ 
"'''^^n„ttilvoi       holdt,gthe 

n,e.     "  Twenty  guineas  a  week    w 

.  u  ^«      That  s  not  so  bad,  IS  It  r 
1  catch  on.     1  hat  s  no  ^^ 

^rXe's^dlttst,  :^:h\er  fu«    necU 
r^'nedforwid,  ..or  has  somebody  been  ,m. 

P°frtrer,A"  replied  carelessly,  examining 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


375 


on  of  a  camisole-- 
a  lace-edged  canii- 
^eneck?     Cut  low 
you  think  so  ?  " 
vise  me  to  decline 
rering  the  brocade 

;ar  girl,  who  invited 

r,"  I  answered. 
;d  bodice  drop  from 
uttered  a  sharp  cry 
^  would  have  been 
"You!     An  offer!" 
losalba  !     How  dis- 
iy_an  infamy!    To 
artistic  reputation !  "^ 
offer  for  a  beginner," 
I   voice,  holding  the 
its  texture  interested 
I  week  ;  with  a  rise  if 
so  bad,  is  it  ?  " 

stared.  "Are  you 
:,  with  her  full  neck 
s  somebody  been  im- 

carelessly,  examining 


the  threads  of  the  brocade  and  turning  it  over 
in  the  light.     "  This  is  a  bona  fide  offer." 

My   sister   clutched    my   arm.     "My  dear 
child,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  profoundly  shocked 
undertone,  "  you  have    no  idea  what  sort   of 
men   these   theatrical   agents   are.     Some   of 
them  are  wretches— wretches.     They  will  offer 
you  anything  till  they  get  you  in  their  clutches. 
Then,  they  take  advantage  of  your   guileless 
nature.     You  have  allowed  them  to   deceive 
you.     'T  is  your  innocence— your  innocence  ! " 
"  That  's  iust  what  mv  manager  said,"  I  re- 
plied,  with  an  infantile   smile  like  Marianas 
own.     (After  all,  there  is  a  wonderful  under- 
lying family  likeness  in  sisters  !)     "  He  said  " 
—and  I    mimicked   his  cracked  voice,  bitter 
sarcasm  and  all—"  '  Innocence  !     Innocence  ! 
To  get  your  agreement  stamped  at  Somerset 
House  !     Innocence,  quotha,  innocence  I '  " 

Mariana's  grip  on  my  arm  was  like  a  steel 
vice.  "  Burminster  ! "  she  cried,  in  a  voice  of 
horror— for  she  recognised  the  squeaky  unc- 
tuousness  of  the  accent—"  Burminster  I  You 
have  seen  him  !  " 

"Yes,  dear.  No  agents  for  me!  Why 
pay  ten  per  cent,  to  somebody  else  for  doing 
ill  what  you  can  do  well  yourself  for  nothing  ? 


mmmm 


wmm 


376 


Rosalba 


I  have  cot  Mr.  Rurminstcr's  agreement  duly 
stamped  in  my  pocket.  John  was  always 
strong  to  you  on  the  necessity  for  ^ettm^  your 
agreements  stamped.  It  is  money  out  of  hand, 
but  it  shows  people  you  mean  it." 

She    drew    back,    incredulous.      "Rosalba, 

you  are  jesting!" 

"  Never  more   serious   m   my  hfe,  dear.— 
What  an  exciuisite  colour  '.-Twenty  gumeas, 

rtwrt' prospects."  , 

"  But  you  are  unknown— an  amateur.    And 

Burminster,  who  has  the  pick  uf  the  talent  of 

London-in  his  own  odious  line  !     I  refuse  to 

believe  it."  „    ,  , 

<'  Behold  this  walrus  tooth  !  I  answered, 
after  King  Alfred's  Olaf,  producing  the  agree- 
ment, with  its  little  red  government  mark  m 
the  corner.  "  '  Rosalba  Lupari  ;- Henry  Ue- 
lamere  Burminster  ;- mutually  agreed  ;- 
twenty  guineas  weekly  ;-in  witness  whereof  ; 
—all  perfectly  regular ! " 

She  read  it,  and  handed  it  back  to  me,  as 
white  as  the  sheet  on  which  I  now  write  these 
words.  There  is  nothing  the  regular  profes- 
sion hates  like  music-halls.  "  This  is  abomin- 
able !"  she  cried;  "disgraceful!  ^^^  ^'f 
to  tread  those  boards  !     You  two  have  hatched 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


377 


s  agreement  duly 
John  was  always 
ty  for  getting  your 
loney  out  of  hand, 
m  it. 
ilous.      "  Rosalba, 

1  my  life,  clear. — 
—Twenty  guineas, 

-an  amateur.  And 
:k  uf  the  talent  of 
5  line  !     I  refuse  to 

oth!"  I  answered, 
reducing  the  agree- 
overnment  mark  in 
jpari  ;— Henry  De- 
utually  agreed  ;  — 
n  witness  whereof ' ; 

d  it  back  to  me,  as 
:h  I  now  write  these 

the  regular  profes- 

"  This  is  abomin- 

raceful!    My   sister 

ou  two  have  hatched 


a  conspiracy  against  me.  E  inupw,  iiiiquo  ! 
I  knew  you  were  unprincipled,  Rosalba!  I 
knew  you  were  wicked " 

"  '  Your  guileless  nature  !  Your  innocence  ! 
You  have  allowed  them  to  deceive  you  ! '"  I 
murmured  in  Mariana's  own  voice. 

She  took  no  notice,  continuing  her  angry 
harangue.  "But  I  never  knew  you  would 
turn  against  me  like  this.  Dio  mio !  It  is 
positively  shameful.     I  shall  never  speak  to 

you  again." 

"What?  Neverer  than  before?"  I  mur- 
mured, for  I  knew  that  threat. 

She  went  on,  unheeding.  "I  shall  apply 
for  a  mandamus  or  a  habeas  corpus  or  some- 
thing to  prevent  you.  An  injunction,  I  think 
it  is  called.  I  know  the  judges  can  grant  one." 
"Some  loops  of  Honiton  would  look  nice," 
I  interposed  sweetly,  handling  the  bodice; 
"  don't  you  think  so?" 

Mariana  was  the  tragedy  queen.  "Here 
ai-n  I  "—she  rolled  it  out  in  her  penetrating 
voice— "a  singer  on  the  highest  operatic  stage; 
by  dint  of  hard  work  I  have  gained  my  posi- 
tion ;  and  now  Burminster  comes  to  you— a 
creature  in  the  music-hall  line— a  contractor 
for  tight-rope  dancers  and  performing  dogs— 


I     _ 


378 


Rosalba 


and  offers  you  a  bribe  to  sell  him  your  name- 
my  name-to  drag  in  the  dirt  on  the  floor  of 
his  vile  places  amon^  the  cigarette  ends  and 
the  orange-peel.  I  shall  protest  agamst  it,  I 
will.     It  's-it  's  an  abominable  outrage  ! 

I  do  not  care  to  bandy  adjectives,  bo  1  let 
her  go  on  for  twenty  minutes-I  love  Manana 
as  Constance  in  King  ^./..-then  1  pocketed 
my  agreement,  waved  my  hand  to  her,  and 
k^t  But  if  you  ask  me  ^vhy  I  got  up  this 
gratuitous  little  scene,  I  can  only  answer, 
'twas  my  devil  who  suggested  it. 

It  was  rough  on  Mariana ;  I  admitted  it  to 
myself  as  I  went  back  to  Auntie  s.     Naturally, 
she   objected   to    my   taking   to   an    inferior 
branch  of  the  profession  which  she  adorned, 
and  so  spoiling  her  artistic  and  social  future 
But  I  had  my  living  to  earn.     And  besides, 
chose  to  give  Mariana  this  fright  because  I 
thought  it  might  act  as  a  moral  shower-bath. 
Shower-baths  are  so  good  for  one  :   the  nervous 
shock  and  so  forth  !     Mariana  lives  too  much 
in  cotton-wool-asparagus  and  chicken-cutlets; 
-occasional  contact  with  the  realities  of  life  is 
a  useful  tonic. 

The  second  was  John.      He  had  promised 


I     _.. 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


379 


lim  your  name — 
on  the  floor  of 
rarette  ends  and 
test  against  it,  I 
le  outrage  ! " 
ctives.     So  1  let 
—I  love  Mariana 
-then  1  pocketed 
land  to  her,  and 
^hy  I  got  up  this 
an   only   answer, 

d  it. 
I  admitted  it  to 

itie's.     Naturally. 
y   to   an    inferior 
\ich  she  adorned, 
and  social  future. 
I.     And  besides,  I 
J  fright,  because  I 
loral  shower-bath. 
•  one  :   the  nervous 
ma  lives  too  much 
nd  chicken-cutlets ; 
le  realities  of  life  is 


He  had  promised 


to  come  round  to  Auntie  s  that  afternoon,  on 
a    matter   of   business.       I    had    begged   him 
earnestly  to  give  me  a  little  note,  as  far  as  he 
could  remember,  of  all  the  sums  he  had  spent 
on    my    education    and    keep-"  the     ducats, 
John,  the  mere   ducats  "—and   of   course   he 
had  refused-for  John  is  a  gentleman.      But 
when  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  it  would  only 
save   me  labour,  since  otherwise  I    must  go 
hunting  up  Miss  Westmacott  and   calling  at 
Peter  Robinson's  to  ask  for  details,  he  gave 
way  at  last  with  evident  reluctance.     "  After 
all"     he   said,  "your    estimate  "—for   I    had 
jumped   at   one— "  is    ridiculously    in    excess. 
If  you  want  to  know   the  truth,  you  may  as 
well  know  it ;   '  t  is  a  question  altogether  re- 
moved from  the  sphere  of  practical  politic-- 
You  can  never  pay  the  amount ;  so  I  will  tell  you 
if  you  insist  upon  it,  as  near  as  I  can  conjecture. 
But  recollect,  Rosalba,  I  do  it  under  protest. 

So  he  came  in  the  afternoon  and  brought  a 
rough  draft  of  the  calculation  with  him.  "  It 
has  distressed  me  to  put  it  down  in  black  and 
white,  my  dear  girl,"  he  said,  wincing;  "but 
since  you  demand  =t  as  a  right,  and  choose  to 
consider  it  as  a  debt,  I  have  stretched  a  point 
to  oblige  you.     Though  I   have  been  more 


I      - 


380 


Rosalba 


than  repaid  already,  Rosalba,  by  many  pleasant 

hours  s'pen.  -  V°»,-'r;-™."f  3  LpP-g 

..  Very  nicely  said,  John,   I  replied,  aroi  p    s 

„y  almired    curtsey.     (John   is  famous   for 

These  formal  old-fashioned  compliments.   1  hey 

hte     c  istinct  flavour  of  Oxford  donulshnessO 

•But  that  pleasure  was  --eciprocal.     Fair  ex 

change  will'not  cover  the  outstanding  debt^ 

We  have  still  the  ducats  to  reckon  w  th.     f' nee 

"^AT"s^;ie     a    -'mo!t  agreeably.     John 
ha"  xcXnt  manners.     ••  But  I  do  not  expect 
repayment  immediately,"  he  went  on.        You 
might  give  me  a  bill-to  Y:  met,  let  us  say, 
the  Greek  calends."  ^ 

..I    ,ould    meet   it  sooner,     1  repuea 
mur'ly      "in  fact,l  think  1  might  begin   to 

Zlt  it  on  the  calends  now  next  ensuing. 
"The  first  of  next  month?     My  dear 

salba,  impossible  !  "  more-on 

..  Mariana  earns  her  hving-and  more 

.!,„  ctiicre     I  am  Mariana's  siste.. 

the  stage,     la  ^^.^^ ,    ^„ 

„:;lg''     Mart  aC  genius.     Don't  deceive 
;S,  my  dear  child.     It  is  not  easy  to  earn 

money  in  London  nowadays. 


I     — 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


381 


)y  many  pleasant 
company." 
■eplied,  dropping 
1   is   famous   for 
ipliments.    They 
3rd  donnishness.) 
procal.     Fair  ex- 
)utstanding  debt. 
;konvvith."    Since 
the  necessity  for 
i  quite  to  Uke  him. 
agreeably.     John 
ut  1  do  not  expect 
;  went  on.     "  You 
met,  let  us  say,  on 

,er,"  I  replied  de- 
I  might  begin  to 
next  ensuing." 

th?    My  dear  Ro- 


mg 


and  more— on 

i  sister." 

It    her  voice!    her 

nius.     Don't  deceive 

[t  is  not  easy  to  earn 

)) 
lys. 


'<  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  I  answered 
lazily,  as  though  it  mattered  little.  "  If  one 
has  the  artistic  temperament,  you  under- 
stand—    Twenty  guineas  a  week— that  's  a 

capital  offer  ! " 

'  Twenty  guineas  a  week  !  Only  stars  earn 
so  much.  And  you,  to  put  it  mildly,  are  a 
star  of  as  yet  uncertain  magnitude.  Shall  we 
say  the  tenth— provisionally  ? " 

"My  dear    John!  your  astronomy   is  un- 

gallant ! " 

"  This  is  a  question  of  business." 
"But  surely   Mr.    Burminster   must   know 
best,"    I  exclaimed  with  my  mos'    provoking 
smile.     "  B^e  puts  me  down  at  twenty  guineas." 
"  Politeness  !     His  way   of  making  himself 
agreeable  to  the    Lupari's  sister.      It  is  one 
thing,  Rosalba,  to  do  these  things  as  an  ama- 
teur for  the   occasional   amusement  of  one's 
private  circle ;   quite  another  thing  to  appear 
as  a  candidate  for  the  suffrages  of  the  cold, 
critical  public.     Most  amateurs  f^nd  that  out 
to  their  cost  when  they  try  to  earn  their  livmg 
by  their   art.     Burminster's  praise  was  mere 
blague— d.  casual  opinion  dropped    hastily   in 
some  drawing-room  where  you  met  him.     The 
wicked  old  creature  said  it  to  be  pleasant." 


j82  Rosalba 

"Then   u>hy^^^  he  put   it  on  a  stamped 
aerelment?"     I    asked,    pulling    it   out   and 
foufng  atit  as  if  it  were  something  to  wh.ch  1 
attached  the  very  slightest  importance. 

John's  colour  changed  at  once        An  agree 
nt  ?  "  he  cried  with  a  start.    "  Let  me  see  it ! 
'Thand:dTto  hta.     ..IhavefoUowedyour 
advice,  you   observe,"   1    sa,d    swee  h^.    J 
have  had  the  thing  stamped      I  can  t  tdl  you^ 
John,  how  many  things  I  have  learned  from 

''°He  read  it  from  end  to  end  with  a  face 
grmving  more  and  more  serious  at  each  clause 
S  he  plodded  on  through  its  busmess-hke 
.;„.       He    saw  Burminster  meant  .t 
Ct  rity  I      rneve\    knew   what  the  word 
meant  before.     His  lips  grew  hard ;  h,s  chm 
grlw  adamant.      He  handed  the    documen 
lack  to  me  without  a  word  of  »--^"\^" 
with  a  pained  expression    on  h.s  face  that 

•"^i^leTdid  terms,  are  n't  they?:  I  observed 
playing  with  my  chatelaine,  but  w>th  a  m,st  m 
^!^eyes-J  ohn  was  so  genuinely  s^>ocked. 
^•Splendid  terms-well,  ye-es,"  he  answered 
slowly  at  last.     "And  so  they  ought  to  be- 
a  music-hall!"     His  tone  became  grave.       U 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


383 


it  on  a  stamped 
Uing    it   out   and 
nething  to  which  I 
mportance. 
)nce.     "  An  agree- 
"  Let  me  see  it ! " 
lave  followed  your 
iaid    sweetly.     "  I 
I.     I  can't  tell  you, 
have  learned  from 

CO  end  with  a  face 
rious  at  each  clause, 
rh   its  business-like 
irminster  meant  it. 
iw   what   the  word 
rrew  hard ;  his  chin 
ided   the    document 
3rd  of  comment,  but 
a   on   his  face   that 

t  they  ?  "  I  observed, 
e,  but  with  a  mist  in 
nuinely  shocked. 
,  ye-es,"  he  answered 
they  ought  to  be— 


i  became  grave. 


It 


is  much  you  have  to  sell,  Rosalba— a  young 
girl's  life— a  young  girl's  happiness— perhaps  " 
—he  winced  at  saying  it,  but  he  said  it  like  a 
man,  and  I  respected  him  for  his  frankness— 
"  a  young   girl's  innocence  ! "     He   took  my 
hand  in  his  and  leant  over  towards  me  anx- 
iously.    "  I  have  no  right,  dear,"  he  went  on, 
in  quite  a  fatherly  voice,  "  to  interfere  with 
your  life  now  :   it  is  your  own  ;  dispose   of  it. 
But— I    have   been   your  guardian  for  some 
years,  and  I  am  still  deeply  interested  in  you. 
For  your   own  sake,  therefore,  I  beg  you  to 
reconsider  this  question  before  it  is  too  late. 
You  have  left  yourself  a  loophole  of  escape,  I 
observe  ;   avail  yourself  of  it.     I  should  never 
cease  to  regret  it  if  you  accepted  this  hateful, 
this  odious  offer.    Above  all,  if  you  accepted  it 
in  order  to  repay   me,  Rosalba,  I    could  not 
take  the  money  so  earned.     I  couM  not  take  it. 
It  would  be  the  price  of  a  soul— of  a  pure  soul, 
tainted.     It  might  be  the  price  of  your  life— it 
must  be  the  price  of  that  first  bloom  of  your 
innocent  girlhood  which  we  all  so  admire.     Do 
not,  do  not  destroy  it.     For  your  own  sake,  I 
implore   you,  decline   this   specious  proposal. 
Decline  it,  dear  child  !    Your  future  is  dear  to 
so  many  of  us  !  " 


384 


Rosalba 


I  am  not  concerned  to  deny  that  tears  stood 
inmTeyes.     I  had  not  looked  (or  th,s.    Con- 
trarTto  my  expectation,  John  had  transcended 
toeU      1  thought  he  would  have  been  struck 
tuh  horror  at  the  idea  that  the  girl  whom  he 
had  designed  tor  the  honour  of  becomu  gMrs. 
S  odtr!h  should  Pe^orm  at  a  mus,cha^a 
.^mmon   low  London  mus.c-hall.     I  thougiu 
he  would  hfnk  o(  himself  and  the  bow  ^  h. 
oir dignity.     Instead  of  that,  he  thought  o 
.V,;  danirer  of  it,  the  unworth.ness.     1  felt 
Twas  sweet'  of  him.     After  all,  John  was  a 

''toftt  ttu'-detected  some  faint  under- 
cuLnt  of  the  other  feeling  in  him  as  he  went 
on     but  sense  of  the  degradation  for  me  wa 

'  Ti-  tnnrlied  me  to  the  heart.     1 

uppermost.     It  tou  bed  me  ^^^^^  ^  ^^^^^ 

^luThl^g-tUee    backmytears..;John,'' 
"cried, 'you  are  a  dear!    I  ««>--;•  t  J" 
,o„,er.     I^-X^firristraHttle 
never  meant  '°^  «P^  \,^  Burminster  be- 
Taretfel   s^r,  Im  ea'rn  money  that  way 
f  Ttr  ed  ;  and  1  wanted  to  show  you  I  couU 
reallv  earn  it.     But  I  am  not  gomg  on  the 
::;not  eve„  on  the  regular  stage  of  the 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


3^5 


y  that  tears  stood 
;d  for  this.     Con- 
1  had  transcended 
i  have  been  struck 
the  girl  whom  he 
of  becoming  Mrs. 
It  a  music-hall — a 
c-hall.     I  thought 
nd  the  blow  to  his 
mt,  he  thought  of 
worthiness.     I  felt 
sr  all,  John  was  a 

some  faint  under- 
in  him  as  he  went 
idation  for  me  was 
le  to  the  heart.     1 
le.     At  last,  1  burst 
k  my  tears.  "John," 
1  will  not  trick  you 
)  accept  this  offer.    1 
t.     It   is  all  a  little 
Mr.  Burminster  be- 
am money  that  way 
;o  show  you  1  could 
1  not  going  on   the 
regular  stage  of  the 


theatre  ;    I   feel  there  are  sufficient  reasons  in 
my  case  to  keep  me  off  it.     It  is  one  of  my 
nUtiers—\i\x\.  not  the  only  one;    and  there   I 
should  be  poaching  on   Mariana's  preserves  ; 
1  prefer  to  rear  my  own  pheasants.     Even  if  I 
do  not  take  to  music-halls,  some  other  sphere 
of  usefulness  will  be  open  to  me,  I  am  certain. 
When  I  signed  this  agreement,  I  took  care  to 
make  it  binding  on  Mr.  Burminster,  but  not  on 
me.     That  was  because  I  never  meant  to  avail 
myself  of  it.     And  one  of  the  reasons  why  I 
did  not  mean  to  avail  myself  of  it  was  because  I 
felt  it  would  be  a  bad  return  for  all  your  endless 
kindness  to  me  if  I  were  to  let  the  world  see 
that  the  girl  who  was  so  long  engaged  to  be 
your  wife  had  gone  to  the  music-halls.     You 
are  a  proud  m -n,  John,  and  I  should  shrink 
from  so   humi.ating  you.     I  never  meant  to 
go ;  I   only  wished  to  prove  to  you  that  if  I 
went,  I  could  repay  you." 

John  wrung  my  hand  hard.  ,"  Thank  you, 
Rosalba,"  he  answered ;  "  thank  you  !  You 
have  relieved  my  mind— for  your  own  sake 
most.  Do  you  know,  now  we  stand  on 
different  terms,  I  think  I  like  you  better  than 


ever. 


"I  am  sure  I  \\V.^you  better,  John." 


as 


I     .- 


386 


Rosalba 


..  And  1  believe  you  will  repay  me.      I  Jo 
not  want  the  repayment.      1  can  "«er  use  ■ 
mvscK.     But  1  see  you  mean  >t,  and  1  honour 
^o'utor    meaning  it.      Rosalba,   you   are    a 

^Tj:ryt'aresokind,Ialmostfeelasi(I 

"te"blXrhi;  sta-ely,  antique  courtesy. 
..  I  am  Klad  we  have  hart  this  interview,  my  ch.ld. 
It  se"s  thincs  on  a  pleasanter  basis  between 
t  We  c°a„  meet  henceforth  more  frank  y 
Tn  society  with  no  sense  of  an  estrangennent. 
"Estrangement!    On  the  contrary,  th.s   ,s 

our  first  rapprochement:'  ,       ,  ,.  „v 

..  My  dear  little  girl,  how  n.ce  <-' /»"   "^^^ 
so  -    1  have  undervalued  your  good  quah.es 

He  looked  quite  handsome  as  he  stood  there, 

with  his  close. haven  face  -l-ed,  h,s  uncon  - 

promising  chin  less  square  than  was  u   hab  , 

and  the  doctvimire  corners  of  his  official  mouth 

Tntontedly  softened.     I  took  a  step  forwa  ^^ 

"  lohn  "  1   burst  out,  "  I  declare  I  am  qu.te 

find  of  you !     You  were  my  guardmn  once, 

and  1  owe  you  a  great  deal-no,  not  the  du 

',ts"-for  he  made  a  little  gesture  of  depreca 

tfon-"  not  the  ducats,  but   gratitude.     For 
tion —    nui.  I  ,  ]      „ 

the  last  time  in  my  life— there  can  oe  n 


I    


tmmMmmmmmm 


I  Come  to  Anchor 


387 


repay  me.  1  tlo 
can  never  use  it 
I  it,  and  I  honour 
alba,   you   are    a 

ahTiost  feel  as  if  I 

antique  courtesy, 
nterview,  my  child, 
ter  basis  between 
,rth   more  frankly 

an  estrangement." 
e  contrary,  this   is 

nice  of  you  to  say 
>ur  good  qualities.' 
le  as  he  stood  there, 
relaxed,  his  uncom- 

than  was  its  habit, 
i  of  his  official  mouth 
00k  a  step  forward, 
declare  I  am  quite 

my  guardian  once, 
eal— no,  not  the  du- 
i  gesture  of  depreca- 
but  gratitude.  For 
here  can  be  no  harm 


in  it  just  this  once  as  between  ward  and  guardian 
—I  am  going  to  kiss  you — spontaneously  to 
kiss  you." 

And  I  kissed  him. 

The  th..d  person  to  whom  I  showed  the 
agreement  was  Dudu.  He  happened  to  drop 
in  at  Auntie's  unexpectedly  that  evening.  He 
happened  to  drop  in  unexpectedly  most  even- 
ings, indeed— and  I  expected  the  unexpected. 
To  say  the  truth,  I  waited  for  him. 

His  countenance  fell  when  I  showed  him  the 
document  with  great  joy  ;  and  he  fingered  his 
moustache  dubiously.  "  O  Dru  !  "  he  cried, 
in  a  voice  of  unspoken  remonstrance. 

*'  It  is  a  lot  of  money,"  I  observed  obliquely. 

"  Yes,   I     know ;  a    lot     of    money  ;    but 

still " 

"  And  I  have  to  repay  John  for  all  that  he 

has  spent  on  me." 

•'  But,  Dru  !     A  music-hall !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "     I  tantalised  him. 

"  Well,  it 's  not  quite  the  place " 

"The  place ?" 

"  For  you — a  tender  little  wayside  flower  to 
wither  in  that  odious  atmosphere  ! " 

"  And  what  claim  have  you  to  object,  sir  ?  " 


388 


Rosalba 


.'  Surely  I  must  guard  my  future  wife  from 

JrrUim.l^ghing     ''laUlitto.^ 
Johnlcouldrepayhim.f  IwouH    Icr.ed 

•'  and  to  tease  my  future  husband  ! 

He  caught  me  in  his  arms.  And  that  was 
the  only  Jay  Dudu  ever  proposed  to  me.  or  I 
accepted  him. 


uture  wife  from 

and  clasped  my 

1  did  it  to  show 

iTould."  I  cried-  - 

and  ! " 

And  that  was 
(osed  to  me,  or  I 


CHAPTER  XXVIl 

OF    THE    NATUKK   OF    AN    Kl'ILOGUE 

NEVERTHELESS,    my    resolve    stood 
firm    not  to    marry    Dudu    while    that 
weight  of  debt  to  John  still  clung  round  my 
neck,  a  moral  millstone.    In  a  new  and  strictly 
commercial  sense,  I  must  be  off  with  the  old 
love  before  I  was  on  with  the  new.     John  was 
a   distinguished    political    economist;   I    felt 
bound  to  treat  him  on  economic  principles. 
Though  our  last  interview  made  me  quite  sens- 
ible that  I  might  take  my  own  time  about  it. 
Still,  I  was  by  no  means  despondent.    Despair, 
you  may  have  observed,  is  an  emotion  with 
which  the  gods  have  endowed  me  but  poorly. 
••  I  shall  earn  it  somehow,  Dudu,"  I  said,  look- 
ing up  at  him  with  confidence  in  Auntie's  draw- 
ing-room.    "  I  have  the  artistic  temperament 
—and  a  testimonial  from  Ernest  Renan." 
He  laughed  at  me.     "  Optimist  1 " 

389 


390 


Rosalba 


•'  It  needs  one  optimist  in  a  house,"  I  an- 
swered. "  One  way  or  other  I  shall  succeed. 
So  1  mean  at  once  to  set  about  it."  I  may 
add    thn.t    the   event   has    justified   my   rash 

prophecy.  . 

You  will  think  I  refer  to  my  musical  come- 
dies. That  is  not  quite  true.  I  did  not  be^m 
by  writin^^  for  the  sta^^e.  thouj^h  of  course  the 
theatre  in  one  form  or  another  was  a  foregone; 
conclusion.  It  was  not  till  some  years  later 
that  I  produced  The  Snake-Charmcr. 

I  had  long  been  writing,  of  course,  and  the 
first  thing  I  did  was  to  try  some  of  my  tenta- 
tive short  stories  on  magazines-a  plan  which 
costs  only  the  postage,  and  gives  trouble  to 
nobody  except  the  editor-and  he  no  doubt  is 
paid  for  it.     To  my  immense  delight,  my  urst 
venture  turned  out  successful.    The  editor  not 
only  printed  my  contribution-a  feeble  little 
tale   Ceccds  First  Lover— hxxt  also  paid  for  it ; 
he  not  only  paid  for  it.  but  also  asked  for  more. 
1  gave  him  more ;  and  as  the  French  proverb 
says,  "  his  appetite  grew  with  eating.       1  h>s 
was  a  good  omen.     I  followed  Cecca  up,  with 
Dudu's  aid.  and  tried  my  fledgeling  flight  in 

the  open.  ,      _ 

Of  course  I  had  written  a  novel.     Every 


a  house,"  I   an- 

I  shall  sur.ctied. 

jout  it."     I  tnay 

istifiecl   my   rash 

ly  musical  com<'- 
I  did  not  hv.\r\n 
ijrh  ol"  course  the; 
ir  was  a  foregone 
some  years  later 
'harmcr. 

if  course,  and  the 
ome  of  my  tenta- 
itjs — a  plan  which 

gives  trouble  to 
ind  he  no  doubt  is 
,e  delight,  my  urst 
il.    The  editor  not 
3n__a  feeble  little 
ut  also  paid  for  it ; 
Iso  asked  for  more, 
le  French  proverb 
ith  eating."     This 
,ved  Cecca  up,  with 

fledgeling  flight  in 


n  a 


novel.     Every 


Of  the  Nature  of  an  T-pilo^^ic     39i 

.rirl  writes  a  novel.     She  writes  about  h.-rself 
-Ihow  "  she  is  not  like  other  girls  "  ;  ami  about 
hiT  sisters  and  other  pet  aversions.      M me  was 
a  novel  of  art,  with  an  artist  for  hero-wh.ch 
was  odd,  I  felt  now,  for  'twas  written  while  1 
was  still  engaged  to  John   Stcdmarsh.      I  he 
hero  ought  therefore,  in  the  fitness  of  things 
to  have  been  a   political   economist.     Hut    I 
doubt    whether   even  Mrs.    Humi)hry    Ward 
could  make  political  conomy  engaging  m  a 
hero      While  I  was  John's  betrothed,  too,  1 
had  felt  a  certain  nat  iral  delicacy  about  sub- 
mitting  this  novel  for  Dudu's  correction.     I 
cannot  think  why,  but  there  was  something 
about  my  hero  which  remotely  suggested  cer- 
tain traits  of  Dudu's;  his  talk  about  art  for 
example,  resembled  singularly  the  talk  about 
art  I  had  heard  and  mimicked  in  the  studio 
near  Auntie's.     No  doubt  it  was  coincidence. 
But  now  that  Dudu  and  I  had  arrived  at  an 
Understanding,  there  remained  no  reason  why 
1  should  be  shy  of  showing  it  to  him.     I  did 
show  it  to  him ;  and  Dudu  said  it  was  "droll 
and  melancholy."     He  and  I  sat  up  half  the 
night  for  many  weeks  after,  burning  the  mid- 
night electric  light-I  will  not  stoop  to  the 
base  subterfuge  of  oil;  1  will  tell  the  truth  at 


I  _- 


J92 


Rosalba 


all  hazards— in   altering  and   correcting   that 
gawky,  angular  little  maiden  effort.     It  needed 
a  master,  for  it  was  limp  and  lank,  like  a  school- 
girl of  "  the  awkward  age."     However,  Dudu 
undertook  to  drape  and  strengthen  it :  he  re- 
vised the  artistic  descriptions  ;  and   he   also 
supplied  not  a  few  felicities  of  expression.      In 
fact,  when  Dudu's  hand  had  touched  the  pages, 
I  quite  fell  in  love  with  my  own  novel.     It  had 
a  quality  of  mystery,  like  twilight  on  a  moor. 
The  studio  talk,  I  know,  too,  was  as  real  as  life  ; 
while   the   young  artist's  aspirations— well,   I 
may  as  well  admit,  they  were  simply  Dudu's. 
We  sent  the  manuscript  to  an  enterprising 
young  publisher  in  fear  and  trembling.     The 
publisher's   reader   was    faintly   appreciative; 
he  "  thought  it  might  do,"  but  "  in  the  present 
depressed  condition  of  the  book-market"  de- 
clined to  commit  himself.     He  recommended 
me  to  print  it  at  my  own  expense— which  was 
absurd.     However,  the  publisher  was  a  man 
of  spirit  and  plunged.     I  could  have  kissed 
that  publisher.  You  disapprove  ?     Set  it  down 
to  my  southern  temperament. 

The  novel  came  out— under  a  prudent 
pseudonym.  I  thought  so  much  was  due  to 
Mariana— at   least  for   a   first  venture.     She 


V 


Of  the  Nature  of  an  Hpiloi;ue     393 


I   correcting   that 
effort.     It  needed 
ank,  like  a  school- 
However,  Dudu 
ingthen  it :  he  re- 
ms  ;  and   he   also 
af  expression.     In 
touched  the  pages, 
iwn  novel.     It  had 
vilight  on  a  moor, 
was  as  real  as  life  ; 
;pi rations — well,   I 
;re  simply  Dudu's. 
to  an  enterprising 
d  trembling.     The 
ntly   appreciative; 
)ut  "  in  the  present 
book-market"  de- 
He  recommended 
)cpense — which  was 
blisher  was  a  man 
could  have  kissed 
■ove  ?     Set  it  down 
nt. 

-under  a  prudent 
)  much  was  due  to 
first  venture.     She 


had  fairly  made  her  artistic  name  ;  it  would  be 
mean  of  me  to  trade  upon  it.     My  book  burst 
upon  the  world  at  a  dull  moment.     But  it  suc- 
ceeded,   for   all    that— mildly,    modestly    suc- 
ceeded!    I  do  not  say  that  it  set  the  Thames 
ablaze  from  Kew  to  Greenwich.     These  are 
crowded  days -John  had  fully  impressed  that 
economic  fact  upon  me ,  you  need  not  only 
wit,  but  opportunity  as  well,  to  emerge  m  our 
time  head  and  shoulders  high  above  the  com- 
mon  ruck  of  divine  geniuses.     I   did  not  so 
emerge.     The  best  that  I  can  say  for  myself 
is   that  a   firm  of  photographers  in    Regent 
Street  offered  to  take  my  portrait  for  nothing, 
and  that  Men  and  Women  of  the  Time  sent  me 
a  printed  circular  requesting  me  to  fill  up  the 
blank  with    my   name,    place   of    birth,    and 
"  claims  to  distinction."     These  are  the  substi- 
tutes for  Fame  in  our  century.     Nevertheless, 
my  book  brought  in  money— not  thousands,  I 
admit,  but  an  adequate  return.     I   could  pay 
Auntie  easily  for  my  board  and  lodging,  and 
put  aside  a  small   sum  towards  my  debt  to 
John  Stodmarsh. 

My  future  was  now  assured.  I  had  no  doubt 
about  that.  Auntie's  position  helped  me.  I 
soon   got  plenty  of    magazine   work,    and  a 


394 


Rosalba 


column  to  write  weekly  for  a   ladies'   paper 
about  "  Art  and  Artists."     It  was  mainly  the 
gossip  of  the  studios  ;  but  it  paid.     Wiser  and 
abler  writers  than  myself  ten  thousand  times 
over  have  gambled  for  years  with  Fate  agamst 
a  bare  subsistence  ;  Fortune  treated  me  better 
with  unblushing  favouritism :  at  twenty-one  I 
was  already  earning  a  more  than  modest  com- 
petence.    I  walked  about  with  my  feet  on  the 
clouds,  like  the  quaint  little  people  in  the  old 
Flemish  pictures  of  the  New  Jerusalem. 

When  the  first  cheque  from  the  ladies'  paper 
came  in.  Dudu  gazed  at  it  wistfully.  "It 
makes  me  sad  to  see  it,  Dru,"  he  said  hand- 
ling it  with  itching  f\ngers,  as  though  he  longed 
to  destroy  it. 

"  Why  so,  dear  boy  ?  " 

•'  Because— because  I  should  like  to  earn 
everything  for  you  ;  and  as  things  go,  if  I 
marry  you  now,  it  will  he  you  who  will  win  the 
daily  bread,  not  I.     I  /latc  your  working  ! " 

"  It  is  not  work,"  I  answered.  "  It  is  pleas- 
ure ;  the  gratification  of  an  artistic  play- 
faculty.  Besides,  it  will  be  years  before  I 
have  paid  off  John.  By  that  time,  no  doubt, 
you  will  have  attained  the  Academy—'  Arthur 
Wingham,  R.A.'      Sounds  well,  doesn't  it? 


Dr  a   ladies'   paper 
It  was  mainly  the 
t  paid.     Wiser  and 
en  thousand  times 
swith  Fate  against 
:  treated  me  better, 
n  :  at  twenty-one  I 
;  than  modest  com- 
*vith  my  feet  on  the 
e  people  in  the  old 
:w  Jerusalem, 
om  the  ladies'  paper 
:   it   wistfully.     "It 
3ru,"  he  said,  hand- 
as  though  he  longed 


should  like  to  earn 
as   things   go,  if   I 
you  who  will  win  the 
?  your  working  ! " 
vered.     "  It  is  pleas- 
»f    an    artistic    play- 
be   years   before  I 
that  time,  no  doubt, 
;  Academy—'  Arthur 
is  well,  does  n't  it  ?  " 


Of  the  Nature  of  an  Epilogue     395 

"  Heaven  forefend  !  Not  so  low  '.—But  I 
don't  want  it  to  be  years,  Dru.  I  want  you 
now— this  very  instant,  second,  minute  !    ^^ 

"  Then  you  must  wait,  my  dear  boy.  I 
looked  as  wise  as  an  owl.  "  John  Stodmarsh 
has  claims  upon  me." 

He  paused  and  mused.  A  bright  idea 
struck  him.  "  Dru,  I  have  a  reversionary 
interest  in  my  Aunt  Emily's  property  in  Italy, 
he  broke  in—"  that  property  near  Vicenza, 
you  know,  that  I  went  out  to  look  after  when 
first  I  nu  .  you  on  the  Monti  Berici." 

-  So  I  have  heard  you  say,"  I  answered. 
"  But  your  aunt,  dear  good  soul,  has  twenty 
years  yet  to  live,  I  hope.  She  is  health  in- 
carnate, like  a  patent-medicine  advertisement. 
Don't  let  us  reckon  on  that.  I  hate  these 
calculations."  _ 

"  Yes,  but  a  reversion  is  a  reversion.     It  1 
insured  my  life,  I  might  borrow  money  upon  it ; 
and  I  might  lend  you  the  money  to  repay  John 
Stodmarsh;   and  then-don't  you  see ?--what 
a  glorious  idea!— we  might  marry  instantly. 
"  And  I  to  owe  you  the  money  ?  " 
"  Yes,  darling— nominally,  since  you  will  be 
business-like.     You  are  sure  to  earn  it ;    and 
you  could  repay  me  if  you  wished.     Though 


96 


Rosalba 


repayment,  from   you  to  me,  would  make  no 
difference." 

I  shook  my  head,  not  too  firmly.  "  But— 
that  would  be  to  repeat  the  same  old  blunder 
over  again — to  put  myself  under  an  obligation 
to  you,  as  I  have  already  put  myself  to  John 
Stodmarsh." 

"  No,  no,  Dru,  darling ;  quite,  quite  differ- 
ent— because — you  love  me  ! " 

I  jumped  at  him  with  a  kiss.  "  Dudu,"  I  cried, 
"that  is  real  logic !  John  knows  his  Stuart  Mill 
and  his  Jevons  by  heart,  I  believe;  but  he 
nex  r  strikes  out  a  profoundly  logical  idea  like 
that  one.     While  you—"  I  let  him  hold  me. 

It  was  not  till  a  few  years  later  that  I  wrote 
The  Snake -Charmer  — tV^'i  strange  play  of 
the  land  east  of  the  sun  and  west  of  the  moon, 
which  made  our  fortune. 

"  So,  after  all,"  you  say,  "  he  was  the  man 
you  were  going  to  marry !  And  all  this  time 
you  have  been  trying  to  deceive  us  ! " 

Not  to  deceive  you,  exactly,  but  to  conceal 
things  from  you  till  the  proper  moment.  Per- 
haps by  now  it  may  begin  to  dawn  upon  you 
that  that  is  my  Method. 


THE  END. 


lie,  would  make  no 

oo  firmly.  "  But — 
le  same  old  blunder 
under  an  obligation 
put  myself  to  John 

quite,  quite  differ- 
e ! 

iss.  "Dudu,"  I  cried, 
mows  his  Stuart  Mill 

I  believe ;  but  he 
idly  logical  idea  like 
[  let  him  hold  me. 
xs  later  that  I  wrote 
at  strange  play  of 
id  west  of  the  moon, 

,  "  he  was  the  man 
!  And  all  this  time 
leceive  us ! " 
actly,  but  to  conceal 
•oper  moment.  Per- 
il to  dawn  upon  you 


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.  $1  25 
las  been  planned  to  reproduce, 
;r  a  characteristic  element  or 
ision  of  the  spirit  and  the  per- 
reated  of  character  rather  than 
in  action  nor  in  the  picturesque 
i  Cnat  of  college  work. 


J  A 


EW  York  and  London 


r 


y 


